


Twist and Shout

by BasicBathsheba



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Hampshire, I am sorry for so many KGB jokes, Ice dancer Agatha, M/M, Normal AU, References to the Beatles, Simon is a himbo, Skating Lessons, Social Media, Sports, Texting, The Lord of the Rings References, Tolkien academic Penny, Watford Ice Arena, Youtube AU, a wet t-shirt scene, figure skater!baz, for some reason a LOT of Russian?, gratuitous music references, hockey player!simon, pining?, the musical education of Simon Snow, this fic is the equivalent of making dinner using everything in your cupboard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba
Summary: Baz Pitch can't jump anymore, but that hasn't dulled his desire to be the world's best figure skater. Simon Snow is surprisingly bad at hockey, but that won't stop him from wanting to make a splash with the Winchester Wyverns. The two have nothing in common, except that they both like the same treadmill--and they both want ice time at Watford Ice Arena. What starts as a gym feud quickly leads to a begrudging friendship, a musical education, and an unexpected opportunity for both of them.A birthday tribute to CSCB, full of The Beatles, skating, and hijinx.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 228
Kudos: 802





	1. A Day In The Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tbazzsnow (Artescapri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY CSCB! This fic is dedicated to you, my dear friend, and was crafted using the tropes and things you love best. I even polled your friends to find out exactly what would make you shout.
> 
> It is.... well, it's a ride. I sincerely hope you like this ridiculous thing I have created. It is a large (partially unfinished) beast, because sprawling AUs with too many chapters are my love language. And all my love to you! I hope you have the best of days, because you deserve the best of everything.
> 
> Readers please be advised: I know nothing of figure skating or hockey. There is a whole lot of wrong in this fic. If you are an expert in either of those things, please just be forgiving because I have taken this thing you love and destroyed it.
> 
> Additionally, this fic will be regularly updating. Feel free to listen along to the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist! 
> 
> And finally, a huge huge thank you to @krisrix and @penpanoply for their gorgeous art!

####  **SIMON**

I love the gym in the morning.

I dunno why more people don’t work out early. Hell, I dunno why people don’t wake up early. The whole world is better when you’re up to greet the day, and you have _so much time_.

When I was a kid, I hated when Mage would come in and wake me up while it was still dark, handing me tea and a jumper before bundling me up to get in the car on my way to practice. I used to sleep the whole way there, used to gripe and grumble the whole time, but fuck if he wasn’t right.

It’s so much better to practise early.

Careful not to wake Penny, I fill my water bottle in the kitchen, grab my bag, and head out the door. I close it softly behind me—Pen doesn’t share my affinity for early mornings.

It’s not pitch dark—the sun is out, just barely—but it’s cool and crisp as I walk to the bus stop to catch the line to the gym. Penny says I should get a car. She says I could probably afford one soon, if things work out, but I don’t think I will. A car just seems really… permanent. Like a lot of work and upkeep. Super heavy.

And anyway, I like walking. I like taking the bus. There’s the nan up front who I see every day, and a few blokes on their way to work, and we all give each other the friendly nods you give folk who are part of your regular routine, but who you don’t actually talk to.

No one’s in when I get to the gym except the old dude who looks like a bull who always checks me in, and I give him the nod, too, because that’s a Thing You Do, and I head to my machine.

The _best_ part about working out early is that you get the best machines, because no one is around. I like the ones near the window, mostly because I get bored while I’m running or stepping or lifting or whatever and I like to look outside and kind of let my mind wander while I do it. Make up stories about the folk that walk by, think about the day, that type of thing. I dunno how anyone manages to work out while just staring straight ahead or down at the numbers. I’d probably off myself from boredom.

Sometimes I don’t get the window machine, because my gym buddy beats me to it, which is fair. And then I don’t have anything to stare at but him. And because we never speak, even though we’re literally the only people ever in at this time, I don’t have anything to think about or watch except for him, so then I end up making up all these stories about him, which is really a problem because they’re starting to get out of hand.

He’s tall and lean, and stupidly muscular—I’ve seen him in the lifting room, I’ve seen his thighs—so he’s either some kind of athlete or just really seriously into fitness. He never speaks— _never_ —but sometimes he’ll give me this cool, mean look that sort of reminds me of the type of look the KHL blokes would give me, the ones that used to scare the shit out of me until I realised they just couldn’t speak English that great and were just concentrating on what I was saying.

So in my head, my gym buddy isn’t English. He’s Russian. I’ve named him Vlad, what with the Russian thing, and also the widow’s peak.

Anyway, so since Vlad and I are the only ones in, and we’re both serious about fitness, I figure he’s some kind of KGB spy, and when he leaves here he puts on one of those sharp suits and the shades with a little earpiece or something and goes off to do Kremliny type things.

(Penny says I really need to watch TV other than old episodes of _The Man From U.N.C.L.E_ , but I can’t help that growing up those were like the only VHS tapes that Mage had around, and like, really, what else was I supposed to watch every day when I was meant to be doing my home school work?) Pretty much all I had to do as a kid was watch old TV or play hockey.

And it doesn’t help that Vlad only ever listens to really old music, stuff I’ve never heard before and never hear on Radio 1, but that definitely _sounds_ old. I know fuck all about music, but I can tell it’s spy-era-y.

That’s why I like it when he gets to the weight room first, actually, because he always puts on his music and I get to listen along to it, and imagine Vlad running from MI6 to whatever song he’s got on that day.

He only plays music when he gets there first—never if I’m there first. I used to not turn music on at all, so he knew he could put on his stuff, but he never did, and I hated just standing in silence listening to him breathe, so I realised I had to put something on because he wouldn’t, so I just put on Radio 1 because I dunno what’s good or not and I figure the radio is inoffensive.

One of these days I’m going to tell him he can _always_ pick the music, but unfortunately I don’t speak Russian.

Maybe that’s why I couldn’t cut it in the CHL.

####  **BAZ**

He’s done it again.

I’ve missed my chance by just a hair’s breadth—truly, I think that if I hadn’t stopped to check my hair before leaving the house, I would have beat him.

I thought I had the leg up today, but as I round the corner I know it’s useless. He’s already putting his bag down and messing with the settings on the machine, rolling his shoulders in that _ridiculous_ tank top he wears, and the good machine is gone from my grasp.

With a heavy glare I set my things down by the evil machine.

I _hate_ this one. It’s not near the window, and it’s right underneath the vent, so year-round you get blasted with cool air or hot air, and it makes everything smell sharp and horrid. You’ll be running for your life, and suddenly a blast of arctic chill that smells like other people’s breath comes and pulls you out of your routine.

I never used to have to use this machine. I’ve had claim on the one by the window for _years_. But two months ago Lug showed up and suddenly I find myself in the fight of my life every morning.

And I’m _not_ crazy. Clearly he thinks this machine is cursed too—Tank Top man, Boy Wonder, whatever his name is. He wouldn’t fight me every day for the machine by the window if he didn’t also hate this one with a deep, abiding passion.

He glances over his shoulder as he starts to run and gives me a nod—always the same, always a nod, like he doesn’t consistently ruin my morning.

There’s nothing to do but run, I suppose, and try to finish before him so I can get to the lifting room first.

Tank Top beats me to the lift room.

It’s my own fault. I lost track of what he was doing, and I was focused on hitting my daily goal, and by the time I came back to my body, he was gone, the glass door to the weight room swinging closed behind him.

It’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll just do better tomorrow.

I wipe down my machine, then wipe down my forehead, then grab my things and head to the weight room. I can hear his music already—always the same mindless drivel, put on far too loud. I think he genuinely just throws on random radio stations and listens to whatever they hand him. Once, on a very bad day, he beat me to the room—which means that by rights he got to put his music on first—but the station was fuzzy and he just _worked out to static for an hour_.

That day nearly drove me around the bend. I went home and started looking up new gym memberships, before I remembered that this is the only gym anywhere around this godforsaken place, and Boy Wonder and I are two of maybe ten people who use it, which is why I have found myself—a professional athlete, an internationally ranked competitor, the top of my field—competing with a lug for the good treadmills daily.

Christ, if my life isn’t sad.

And Tank Top is listening to Coldplay.

***

Sometimes it seems like I’m two people. 

When I’m walking out in the world, I’m just a man. Just a boring, orderly, unexciting man with pressed shirts and a breakfast routine and excellent oral hygiene. Twenty-three years of technical excellence and buttoned-up restraint. I have 1.5 friends, good music taste, and not a whole lot else.

But when I get on the ice, I’m me.

I’m magnificent.

I love the ice. I love the coolness of it, the way an arena smells—fresh and brittle, like the air is too much to fit in your lungs at one time, like it’s challenging you to try. I love the way the ice in Watford Ice Arena smells—just slightly sharper than other ice centres, just a tad colder.

I stretch my arms out over my head and kick at the ice, just a few times, just to get the feel of it, before I skate to the edge and lean over the side to connect my mobile to the overhead speakers. I scroll through, finding the playlist I want, and then quickly turn on my camera so that I can record my routine. I’ve been posting parts of it at a time leading up to the gala showcase, because my Youtube followers like watching me choreograph things.

The camera comes on, and I take my place.

I wait for the countdown, the familiar first notes of _Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da_ starting up. I count to ten, clap my hands, and then I go.

This routine is flawless. It’s fast, a nearly breathless race around the rink, and it’s my favourite warm-up. I know it like the back of my hand. I could do it with my eyes closed—I _have_ done it with my eyes closed, actually—and it always feels like flexing a muscle. Like bending a knee, taking a breath and then just—

I tuck my arms into my side and spin.

_Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on._

The music swells and I pump my legs in time to the beat, throwing my arms wide as I curve, long and graceful on the outside edge. I spin again, and I know I’m smiling. I do a small jump, balancing myself and propelling down the ice before tucking in for the larger jump. Kick off from the left foot, up into a triple loop—

_Ob-la di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra, la-la, how their life goes on._

I land it beautifully, one leg extended out behind me. I tuck in to spin tight, over and over, spotting myself on the double doors at the far end of the arena before sliding forward on my knees.

_And if you want some fun_

_Take Ob-la-di-bla-da_

“Bloody fucking hell.”

I nearly jump at the voice, cutting over the last fading notes of the song. Panting, I get to my feet and turn around, only to see—

The Lug.

He’s leaning against the wall of the rink, shaking his head. He’s bundled up in a bright purple windbreaker and beanie, and I realise I’ve never seen him not wearing a tank top before. Though, once, a few weeks ago he wore a ratty shirt for some team I’ve never heard of. But I’d recognise him anywhere—he has more moles and freckles than any human being I’ve ever seen. His whole face looks like marred ice.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, too startled to have good manners. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t _exist_ outside of the gym. He lives in the gym. He comes into existence the moment I open the doors and materialises, fully formed from the void, right next to the good machine. And once I’ve finished my routine for the morning he goes back to his cursed existence. Or maybe he just stays in the gym all day, listening to bad music and grunting while he squats and steals other people’s joy.

“I didn’t know you skated,” he says, ignoring my question. He pushes off from the wall and walks onto the ice. He’s wearing hockey skates. Bulky black hockey skates.

“What are you doing here?”

“What was that song you were listening to?” He crosses over to me in four strong, quick strides. I blink. He’s a solid skater. He doesn’t look like he should be able to even balance on the ice, and yet. “That was brilliant.”

I blink.

“It was _Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da_.”

He cuts sideways to stop in front of me, and tiny shards of ice spray onto my new skates.

“Who’s it by?” He digs in his pocket. “I’m gonna make a note.”

I squint. “The Beatles.” 

His face doesn’t change as he frowns down at his phone. I feel like I’m hallucinating.

“How do you spell it? I’m getting nothing.”

I take an actual step back. This is a joke. He’s decided to top off this morning’s crushing defeat by following me here and pranking me. Or maybe Bunce from the front desk set this up, something specifically designed to fuck with me.

Or maybe I jumped into a parallel universe, and I spun out through the stars, and I’ve landed in a fantasy land.

There’s no fucking way he doesn’t know who the Beatles are. I don’t know who he is, or why he’s here, but I will not allow myself to get pulled into this. I close my mouth and skate by him, knocking his shoulder as I go. 

“I don’t have time for this,” I call. “I don’t know why you’re here, but this is a private ice time.”

“How did you learn to skate like that?” he asks, following me. Apparently this man is incapable of listening or responding to what I say. I don’t know what else I expected from someone who wears tank tops.

“I’ve practised.” I stop the video recording on my phone, scroll back through my playlists, and select the song for the routine I really need to work on today. I’ll be doing it at next week’s exhibition, and I have a reputation to maintain. Just because I’ve had to adjust my routines doesn’t mean I can rest on my laurels. Baz Pitch is synonymous with perfection and artistry, and nothing, no jumps or bad knees or tank top-wearing lugs will keep me from being my best.

“Crikey, man,” Tank Top swears, following me to the wall. “I’ve never seen someone jump like that.”

“It’s a very standard jump. Now, I’m sorry, I must insist—I book this time specifically, and I need to practise. Free skate starts at eleven, you can return then.”

“Oh.” His face falls. “Right. Sorry. Didn’t realise… figured I could just get in some skating no trouble.”

“You can at eleven.”

“Right, right.” He frowns at me. “Say, where is the office?”

I set up my song, hit record on the video, and head back to centre ice. “Back through the main lobby, the purple door at the end.”

“Right.” He lingers by the wall, watching me set up my beginning stance. “Well. have fun.”

“Mhm,” I mumble dismissively. If I don’t look at him or respond to him, maybe he’ll leave me alone. The first notes of _Stormy Weather_ , Etta James, begin, and I take a deep breath.

Count to three. From the top.

Halfway through one of my spins, I see the blurred shape of someone watching me from the door. I bare my teeth at him and continue my routine.

  
  


**SIMON**

Turns out Vlad is an English-speaking, gravity-defying prick.

But fuck if he can skate.

  
  



	2. I Feel Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz has a very good day, Penelope Bunce is busy, and Agatha Wellbelove is plotting. Enter: The English Ice Human League.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the reads and the comments on the first chapter! Also a thanks to @messofthejess and @penpanoply for the beta read. Real MVP. Love as always to CSCB.
> 
> Follow the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist on Spotify!

**BAZ**

It’s a very good day.

I woke up without the annoying muscle cramp in my leg that’s been plaguing me all week. During breakfast, I checked my video statistics and discovered I’ve broken a follower milestone. My father cancelled family dinner on Sunday because he has a cold, and my hair looks incredible.

I beat Tank Top to the good machine. I ignore his nod, and I’m into the weight room before he’s even halfway through his work out.

It’s a _very_ good day.

He gives me another nod on my way out of the gym, and I return it—only because I managed to defeat him today, and only because I’m feeling exceptionally good.

I should record Mordelia today. She finally perfected her axel at yesterday’s practice, and it would be good content for my videos. My followers like it when other people appear in the videos—Fiona says it humanises me, to see me interact with others. Dev says I seem less rigid if I have friends. I don’t think my little sister necessarily counts as a friend, but her success will reflect well on my coaching abilities.

Maybe I’ll take her for sushi after practice.

It’s going to be a very, very good day.

Bunce doesn’t bother to greet me when I walk through the door. She’s nose deep in a book, as usual, and completely ignoring her receptionist duties. Normally I can’t wait for her to finish her PhD and move on so that the arena can finally hire someone at the front desk who takes their job seriously, but today is a good day.

“Good morning, Bunce.” I even smile at her, because that’s how good today is.

“Mhm,” she mutters. 

“Your hair is looking lovely, have I mentioned?” Her hair is pulled up into a terrifying bun and looks like it has several pencils knotted into it. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

“The General was looking for you.”

I pause in the middle of opening my locker, close my eyes and try not to sigh. Popping by Mitali Bunce’s office is never good. It always ends with her moving around my ice time, or roping me into taking on more students, or—once, to my absolute horror—enlisting me to sub in for the juniors skate class. I still don’t know how it happened, but it ended with me spending my afternoon chasing toddlers around the ice with bumpers instead of working on my gala showcase routine.

She’s always after me to build programmes and take on more students, but it’s useless. I’ll never agree. Skating is a full-time job, what with preparing for showcases and creating content for my Youtube and updating all my social accounts, not to mention training and choreographing new routines for myself, as well as doing all that for my students. I already coach Baby Bunce _and_ Mordelia _and_ oversee the junior skate showcase. It’s more than one man can take, honestly. I never have a moment for myself.

Grabbing my bag, I head toward the back where Mitali’s office is. She doesn’t own the rink—she just runs it for Mage, who is blessedly never here, but whose business practices have a long arm. But Mitali is the General in these parts. She organises the schedules with a precision that I think generals would actually envy, and she’s managed to keep Watford Ice Arena open _and_ profitable, despite being located on the outskirts of Winchester, of all places.

It’s all because of figure skating, honestly. Mitali has managed to bring in some of the best skaters in England, as well as serving as a much-needed training ground outside of London. Truthfully, if Watford Ice Arena hadn’t been here when I was a child, I’m not sure if I would have ever learnt to skate.

Then again, just thinking that is ridiculous. Skating is in my blood. My mum was a two-time Olympic bronze medalist. My aunt is a ranked skater. There was never a chance I wasn’t going to skate.

I knock twice on the door to Mitali’s office before walking in. I never wait. She never expects me to. It’s a decent system we’ve worked out, wherein she runs the rink and I essentially do whatever I want.

“Basil,” she says, glancing up from her computer and nodding at the chair across from her desk. “Sit.”

Her office is like what I imagine the inside of a dragon’s lair looks like, if the dragon were disorganised and obsessed with papers. I shove several binders off the chair and sit. I hope this doesn’t take long. I’m itching to get on the ice.

“I take it you’ve heard the news, then,” she says, staring me down. I raise an eyebrow.

“Pretend I haven’t.”

Her forehead crinkles.

“Oh. Lovely.” She takes her glasses off and throws them onto the desk. “Mage has signed a contract with the EIHL, and they’re going to be using our rink for the new expansion team.”

She’s waiting for me to explode. I can tell by the way her hand is hovering just in front of her face, waiting to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Well,” I say, shifting. “I can hardly say I’m surprised.”

Mitali looks like she might cry with relief.

“It’ll mean way more people in looking for time, but it’s one evening a week, and two or three days for practice, though my understanding is probably less. It won’t disturb your lessons, but I _am_ going to have to move your ice time.”

I frown. I don’t like Mage. He bought Watford several years ago out from under a trust. The first thing he did was put in an unnecessary concessions and upgrade the seating, but he completely ignored the showers and facilities, which still drip mould on you and look more akin to a torture chamber. And I hate the way he’s forced Mitali to overbook ice time and squeeze groups in together and wring out every second of the day into a profitable option. But moving my ice time really isn’t the end of the world. I understand how these things work. I’m surprised she expected me to be so unreasonable. We _are_ a training arena.

“That’s fine,” I say, crossing my legs. “And it won’t interfere with my students?”

“Not for right now, but I can’t make guarantees. He wants us to start up a new class as well, to go along with the EIHL contract, and that may eat into your evening classes, but I’m unsure.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll battle it out then. Is that all?”

Mitali nods, and I grab my bag. “Excellent. I look forward to fighting with you later, then.”

I extend my hand and she takes it, but she doesn’t let me go.

“We’re about to have a lot of new people in at the rink, and you are the biggest name here. You’re a representative for Watford Ice. Please remember that?”

I grip her hand and squeeze twice, hoping she’ll let go. “Mitali. I’m a consummate professional. I would never let Watford down. I look forward to meeting my new EIHL companions.”

***

“What’s the EIHL?”

Wellbelove sits up out of her stretch and squints.

“What?”

“The EIHL,” I repeat, propping my leg up on the boards and stretching. Behind us, Mordelia and Baby Bunce chatter mindlessly and do bunny hops around each other. “Apparently Mage has signed a contract to let them use Watford. What is it?”

“Uh…” Wellbelove holds out a hand and I help her to her feet and spin her quickly. “English. Ice...Human…League.”

“I really don’t think the Human League are doing ice capades now.” I turn and snap my fingers for Bunce and Mordelia to straighten up. “But I can’t imagine what the H stands for.”

“What H?” Baby Bunce asks.

“What's the EIHL?” Wellbelove asks before I can deflect and pretend I know what I’m talking about. Baby Bunce beams.

“Oh, it’s a hockey league.”

Wellbelove and I stare at each other, horrified.

“Hockey?” she says.

“Like field hockey?”

“I don’t think we play hockey here,” Wellbelove says, shaking her head. “That’s a Canadian thing.”

“Surely there are not enough players in England to have an English hockey league,” I agree. This is more ludicrous than Philip Oakey on skates. “We import our Olympians from Canada.”

Baby Bunce shrugs.

“Mum says they’re a bunch of Canadian and Russian guys who are all in their forties and dried up so the team could get them cheap.” She stretches her arms over her head. “Though one of Penny’s friends plays for them, and he’s English. He kind of sucks at it, though.” 

An uncomfortable prickling starts in my gut as I realise I’ve very, very recently seen someone around here in hockey skates.

“Does this friend wear tank tops and look like he’s been splattered with paint?” I ask.

Baby Bunce glances at Mordelia and Mordelia starts laughing, even though Bunce didn’t say anything. It must be some kind of inside joke. I hate when they have inside jokes. I’ve been thinking for months now that I need to start training them separately, before they meld into one mutinous mass and destroy my sanity.

“Yeah, that’s Simon,” Baby Bunce says, still looking at Mordelia, who looks like she’s about to burst.

 _Simon_. The Lug has a name. Tank Top, Boy Wonder, Hockey Lug—Simon.

In my mind, all hockey players are just named Wayne or Alex.

“Right, well, thank you for the information. Now go do laps.” I clap my hands twice and shoo the girls off before turning back to Wellbelove.

“Hockey players.” She makes a face and shudders. “I’m very glad this isn’t my home rink. You couldn’t pay me to share with hockey players. I’ve heard they do horrifying things to the ice.”

“Yes, yes, tell me again how much better it is to be based in London and have all your coaches and fancy coffee places and run of the rink with your partner,” I say, flicking an annoyed glance at Wellbelove. I wouldn’t call us friends—we’re more like colleagues, if anything, but she comes down once a month to help choreograph Mordelia and Baby Bunce for me, and she loves to rub in how much better it is in London.

“No partner, not anymore.” She squints down at her mobile. “Didn’t you hear? Gareth broke his leg.”

“ _What_?” I turn quickly, my mouth gaping. It’s hideously unattractive, but I can’t help it. “He what?”

“Broke his leg. While on vacation in Majorca. So I’m spending the month interviewing for a new partner so I can maybe start to train him up before the next pairs qualifier.”

I have no idea how she’s being so calm about this. I would be losing my mind. I _did_ lose my mind, in fact, last spring when my physical therapist told me no more risky jumps. The door slammed closed on my future and I sat in my flat in the dark and went through a very bad period which involved a _lot_ of chocolate.

“It’s fine, Gareth was awful anyway. He was dead weight.” She flicks her ponytail behind her shoulder and glances up at me. “You know, if you feel _so_ terribly bad about it, you could come along to interviews?”

“And why would I do that? I’m not a pairs skater.”

“Just to show them how to do it. You’re so good, Baz, you’re an excellent metric to judge them by.”

I squint at her.

“You never call me good. This feels like a set up.”

Wellbelove holds up her hands in mock innocence. “It’s not a set up. I’d just really love your guidance.”

This is a set up.

“I’m busy that day, I’m afraid.” I push off from the boards and take off across the ice, over toward where Baby Bunce and Mordelia are giggling and pushing each other instead of doing their laps. “But I hear we’re about to be invaded by hockey players—maybe you can ask one of them.”


	3. We Can Work It out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz goes feral, Simon gets desperate, Penny doesn't care. Dosvidaniya, prick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am I back again? three days in a row? impossible. (but actually and truly, this won't be a daily updating fic, I do mean that)
> 
> thank you @messofthejess and @penpanoply for the beta read. Thank you @tbazzsnow for existing <3
> 
> Follow the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist on Spotify!

**SIMON**

“No. No. Absolutely not.”

I look up from the puck to see Vlad standing at centre ice, arms folded across his black jumper. He looks ready to kill.

(Just because he can speak English with a plummy accent doesn’t mean I’m ready to abandon the idea of him as KGB.)

“Er, morning.” I wave one of my gloved hands at him. I bite back the urge to add _privyet_.

“Why are you here?” Vlad is wearing straight up leggings. His skates are black, his leggings are black, his jumper is black and so is his hair. He’s like a ringwraith on ice.

I glance at my hockey stick, then the puck, then the makeshift goal I’ve made with my bag and trainers, then back to him.

“Practice?”

“Why are you _here_ during _my_ ice time?” He skates closer, so fast I barely see him coming. Fuck, he can move. “We’ve been over this. This is my time.”

Pulling my gloves off, I tuck them under my armpit and scratch the back of my head. I didn’t expect this. He’s a bit aggressive. Most of the Russians I know are pretty chill.

“Sorry, mate, I was told I could practise during this time.” I hold up my hands and shrug. Vlad’s eyebrows are pulling in so tight they look like they may take flight.

“Who told you?”

“Uh—”

“Because I was given this time two days ago, and assured that none of you hockey heathens would be interrupting.” His nostrils flare. “I’ve been having a _very good_ two days, blissful in the knowledge that this would not happen.”

“Oi.” Christ, to imagine I ever thought this bloke was my gym buddy. Vlad’s a fucking prick. “That’s a bit uncalled for.”

“You’ll have to pick a different time.”

I can feel my cheeks getting hot, my face heating up. This is what happens when I get angry, right before I drop gloves and pop off. There _is_ no different time. Not with team practice about to start and goalie practice and running the class Mage has made me take on, _plus_ pulling my work shifts….

I need this time. I need extra practice time, and I need a chance to decompress before everything starts to ramp up—

“This is the time I was told.” I put my gloves back on and return to the puck. “Take it up with Mage.” I slam the puck as hard as I can and it veers so wide, so high above my fake net that it ends up bouncing off the side and whizzing right back at me, past my ear, straight toward Vlad.

He ducks just in time.

“No!” He shouts, racing toward my puck. “No! I refuse to do this!” He picks the puck up, zooms back to me and throws it. I block it pretty easily with my stick (I’d be a shit goalie if I couldn’t) but it still catches me by surprise.

“Jesus fucking—”

“First you take my machine, then you take the weight room!” He shoots by me, grabs my trainers and starts throwing them. “We will not do this here! Watford is mine! I will not fight you on every front!”

“Oi!” I shout as a trainer connects with my head. I bunch in on myself and block the other one before it hits my nose. “Could you fucking not?”

“Get off my ice!” He grabs my bag and swings it wide so it goes spiralling through the air, over the boards, and into the seating area. “And stop taking the good treadmill!”

“You’re fucking crazy,” I marvel, shaking my head. I bend to pick up my trainers. “You’ve gone round the bloody bend. I dunno how they do things in Russia, mate, but this is just not on over here!”

“Out!”

“Do-fucking-svidaniya, prick.” I gather my puck (before he can chuck that at my head again) and head off the ice.

***

“He didn’t go crazy, he went feral.” I shake my head and shove the last of my chicken salad into my mouth. “Penny, his eyes were like, bulging out of his head. His hair was on fire. He had fangs.”

“Sounds like a typical Baz Tuesday.” Penny flicks through the giant book she’s got propped on the kitchen counter in front of her, not even looking up. I dunno how she does it. I know she’s read literally every Tolkien book, paper, critique, analysis and fanfic out there, but she’s constantly referencing new things, like she’ll stumble on some plot or idea or nugget of information she doesn’t already know. She won’t. She knows everything. I dunno why she’s even bothering to go through the PhD process—they should just hand her the degree now, make her a doctor of English and the biggest Tolkien swot on the face of the planet.

“Wait, what?” I pause.

“Baz? Baz Pitch? Basilton Grimm-Pitch, his high and mighty, nationally ranked pain in my arse?”

“His name is _Basilton_?” I’m stunned. I’m so stunned I can’t even finish my sandwich. “I’ve been calling him Vlad.”

Penny looks up and squints. “Oh, because of the hair?”

I nod. “Yeah, and because he’s Russian.”

Penny doesn’t stop squinting, but she doesn’t ask questions. This is why I love Penny.

“Anyway, I’ve got to figure out some new ice time, I guess, or else he might try to shove my stick up my bum. And I may need to find a new gym.” I can’t believe he got angry over the treadmill. I can’t believe he thought it was _his_ treadmill. I had no idea that all this time I thought we were mates, but we’ve apparently been locked in a fight to the death over gym equipment.

Penny snorts. “Good luck with that. Mum has just about every second of ice time booked. Loads of lessons are doubled up, and what with you and the Wessex Wyverns needing practice time, I don’t think you’re going to get the rink entirely to yourself.”

“Maybe I can come in really early, before it even opens? Maybe Mage would let me.”

“If _you_ come in early then _I_ have to come in early, because I’m in charge of mornings. And I already get here an hour before opening for Baz. Please, please don’t make me show up to work even earlier.”

“Fine, fine.” Maybe I can stay late. Like, before I zamboni in the evenings. But then it wouldn’t really help me get ready for the day. I like that—like being up early rather than late, like getting a chance to orient myself before I have to see Mage and my coach and everyone else….And I’m wiped in the evenings anyway.

“You’ve got the first practice tonight, right?” Penny asks, flipping her book again.

“Yup. Gotta run soon, actually.” I glance at my watch and frown. “Mage said he’s going to sit in.”

Penny’s eyes flick up.

“Is that a thing? Arena owners watching practise?” I shrug. The owners never did at the arenas and practice rinks I played in back in Canada—but it was a different situation there, I guess. The CHL is big times. The owners and everyone involved are on a different level. Everything in the EIHL is just a bit smaller. A bit more attainable.

I kind of like it, actually. There’s no fuss, no muss. The blokes are all really nice and there’s not as much pressure, and no one’s a dick about the fact that I sort of suck.

I’m not being down on myself—I know it’s true. I’m not a strong skater, my form is shit, and I’m really only useful as a backup goalie because I know how to fill space. I know Mage had all these ideas when I was a kid that I was going to be a lead scorer and going to become some national pride and champion, and I know he’s pissed I got cut from the CHL after only two seasons. But still. That’s two seasons more than I ever really expected.

I wish Mage wouldn’t come to practices, though. It just sends the wrong message—makes people think I only got on the team because he owns the arena. It’s the same as the rumours from the CHL, that I only got on because Mage knew the owners, and then the shit people said when I moved back, that I was only sent up to Glasgow because Mage had helped get the coach’s kid a job. But that’s not true at all. None of it. 

I was doing perfectly well playing up in Glasgow before I found out they were forming a new team in Hampshire. And I asked around, because that would be brilliant, getting to go home, and then it was only natural that they’d book with the only rink _in_ Hampshire, and one thing led to another, and, well…

It’s not nepotism. It’s just lucky.

That’s me. Simon Snow. Bloody lucky.

***

“You do alright, Засранец.” A man with hands the size of my face claps my back. “But maybe we keep you in goal, yeah?” I try not to flush as I pull off my helmet and run my hand through my sweaty curls. I’ve got no idea what _zasranets_ means, but I’ve decided to go with it. My new teammates don’t even know me—there’s no chance it’s something shitty.

I grab a water bottle and nearly dump it all over my face. I’m absolutely wiped. Coach Mac decided our _get to know each other_ practice was going to consist of running speed laps and doing drills, and unsurprisingly, everyone outperformed me. I’ve been playing since I was a kid. Street hockey, field hockey, ice hockey from as soon as Mage got guardianship of me. You’d think, at some point, I’d have gotten better at taking all that “talent” people say I have and channelling it into technique.

The only things I did well in were blocking goals and taking long shots—clear from centre ice, slamming them in on raw power. But I’m shit at the technique, and even more shit at speed. Dudes six times my size were zooming by me like ballerinas.

“Yeah, thanks mate.” I hold out a fist for him to bump, and then sort of regret it, because seeing our fists next to each other makes me feel even worse.

“Hey, Snow, next time, you can just grab my stick and I’ll haul you through the speed drills!” shouts some other guy who's definitely from the States and I’ve decided to hate.

“I dunno where that stick’s been, mate, I’m not touching it.” I throw my dirty shirt in the American’s direction, and a couple of the other guys laugh. Mostly the Russians. I’m good at making Russians laugh.

Well, most Russians.

Maybe if I make enough friends on the team, I can get them to show up to early morning skate with me and intimidate Vlad—Baz, fuck, Baz—to get him to give me his ice time.

I don’t think that’s gonna work, though. He seemed pretty het up about everything, all things considered. But I’ll figure it out. That’s what I do. I’ll figure it out.

The other guys laugh and give each other shit while we clean up from practice, and I take my time in the shower waiting for everyone to leave, even though it takes me about two minutes to wash my hair and shit.

The changing room is empty by the time I get out and dried off and changed again. I can hear voices fading down the hall, the sound of the doors closing and then cars starting up outside. Methodically, I go room by room, checking for anyone left over, and then I lock the doors. As soon as the doors are closed, I head to the sound system. Penny’s had to walk me through this at least a hundred times, but it’s easy enough to connect it to the radio station.

I like having sound on while I do the closing. It gets a bit boring, honestly, but the music helps it all go by faster. Makes it feel less spooky to be in the place all by myself. It’s 80’s hour on, apparently, which I wouldn’t know if the DJ didn’t tell me, and I sing along tunelessly, making up my own words as I clean the bogs and change the loo roll and replace the flickering lights in the lobby. I bop my head as I take out the rubbish and check the ice levels before I start the long, loud process of getting the zamboni running.

Honestly, I could use this time to do my solo skating. It’s a huge opportunity that I’m wasting. I could get in plenty of speed practice and no one would be around to bother. But I’m just wiped, honestly. Doing closing always takes it out of me.

Penny says I should quit, that I don’t need this job on top of the (measly) amount I make for the hockey class and the Wyverns contract, but I dunno if I could quit. Mage offered it to me when I moved back and was getting on my feet, and he seemed happy to have me in, because apparently it’s hard to keep night staff around here. And it’s not that bad, honestly. As far as jobs go, it’s pretty easy, and it helps Watford, and, I mean, I owe Mage so much. It’s hardly anything to do some odd jobs here and there.

When I finish, I park the zamboni back in its room, cut the music, and grab my things. Checking my watch, I groan.

I’ve missed the last bus. Fuck. I’m going to have to ask Penny to come pick me up.

She’s gonna make me listen to the bloody _Hobbit_ audiobook the whole way home.


	4. Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T-rexes on ice, Black Sabbath, Beach Boys satires and an unlikely compromise. JesusfuckingChristyoureweird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Monday, lets get some skate fic
> 
> thank you @messofthejess and @penpanoply for the beta read. Thank you @tbazzsnow for existing <3
> 
> Follow the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist on Spotify!

**BAZ**

I should have known this would happen.

It was too good to be true. Lug didn’t fight me for the machine this morning. When I came in, he was already in the lift room, some jacked man was on the awful treadmill, and my machine was free. I floated through my workout on the false promise of victory, absolutely on top of the world.

So absorbed was I in the idea of having won my treadmill and territory back that I even stopped to get myself a coffee, which I typically only do on very special days. Dev made it with extra whipped cream. Twice the normal amount.

It was the coffee that betrayed me, in the end. The coffee is the reason why I open the door to the ice and hear the _slap clack swish_ of a hockey puck. If it weren’t for the coffee and the extra whipped cream, I wouldn’t have ceded my ice to…. this.

Boy Wonder turns the moment the doors open and holds up his hands, heavy and gloved, like he’s surrendering. Except he’s _not_ , because I made it very clear he was not welcome here, and alas, here he is.

“Don’t throw anything at me,” he says. “Just listen.”

I shift and don’t say anything. I’m not particularly proud of my throwing fit yesterday.

“Look, I tried to get another time, and there is none. I need ice. You need ice. I figure we can either split the difference and each take reduced ice time, or we can just share.”

“Share?” I sputter. I shake my head. “I cannot go through an entire routine with a hockey net set up on one end of the ice.”

“It won’t always be here,” Simon says quickly. “Most days I just need to work on my skating, and the net is sort of useless if I don’t have anyone to score on me. I can get rid of it.”

He keeps his hands up, like he’s willing me to not shoot, and skates closer. He slides to a messy, brutal stop a few feet ahead of me. His face is a picture of eager earnestness.

“I will never take the good treadmill, you can always keep your music on in the lift room, _and_ you can always pick music on ice.”

I narrow my eyes. This is too much capitulation. This is barely a negotiation. There’s something not right about this.

“And you get, what? The right to be on the ice at the same time?”

Simon shrugs.

“If you want to shoot on me every now and then, I wouldn’t mind, but, yeah. Mostly I just need space to work on my speed and dexterity skills.” He runs his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m good at hockey, I just—my skating’s not great. And I want to move out of goal, and get a chance to be a scorer, but no one will ever look twice at me because I can’t keep up with the other guys on the ice.” He takes a deep breath, puffs out his cheeks, and then releases it all at once. “And I need time in the mornings, before everything starts, to just…I dunno, calibrate? Without people watching me?”

I squint at him. This is so much information. “Aren’t you a professional hockey player? Didn’t you play in Canada?”

His face brightens for a moment, like he’s delighted that I know something about him, and then crumples.

“Well. Yeah. I mean. I wouldn’t say I ‘played’. Mostly I was just...there. I played more in Glasgow, but I was still a backup goalie. But with the Wyverns, I’ve got way more chances to prove myself, and I—”

He shuts up. Literally clamps his lips together, like he’s just realised he’s telling me, his sworn enemy, all of his weaknesses.

I suppose I can’t fault him for wanting to skate better. It’s not unreasonable.

“Fine,” I snap. Today is a special day—it’s the day I show mercy and willingness to cooperate with others. “But stay out of my way. If you fuck with any of my routines, you’ll regret it.”

He puts his hand on his chest.

“Swear it.” Then he shoves a hand under his armpit and pulls off his glove before reaching his hand out toward me. “Simon Snow, by the way.”

I inspect the offered hand. Large. Freckled. Suspiciously earnest. Simon Snow. A fitting name for a skater. Snow. I like it.

I take his hand.

“Baz Pitch. Now get on your side.”

He gives me a lopsided grin and then some kind of odd salute before putting his glove on and skating away, his stick out in front of him. I watch him go, marvelling. He skates like some kind of lopsided t-rex, the way all hockey players do, like they’re slightly unbalanced and they’re wobbling back and forth. Not straight and smooth and fluid like a figure skater.

Fascinating.

***

Snow keeps to his word and keeps to his side of the ice. He runs speed drills, timing himself on an old-fashioned stop watch, swearing occasionally. I go through my routine for the gala again, ignoring him the best I can, until I feel satisfied. Then I move on to finishing the choreography for Mordelia’s showcase. I still haven’t fully settled on a song—I’ve been working to a Cass Elliot song— _Make Your Own Kind of Music_ —but Mordelia wants Black Sabbath.

I don’t think I even have Black Sabbath on my Spotify.

I don’t think I could even name a Black Sabbath song.

Regardless, I don’t need to have the music ironed out in order to think through the point system, the jumps, the notes she needs to hit. I let my Spotify wander, putting my music on shuffle and zoning out.

I’m halfway through cracking the routine—and one minute into _Back In The USSR_ —when Snow starts wheezing.

I stop moving, sliding out of my turn as I stare at him. He’s—

He’s not choking, he’s laughing.

“What?” I snap. He shakes his head and tries to stop laughing.

“What?”

“Sorry, no, it’s just—” He lets out a laugh that makes him sound like a barking dog. “Sorry. Just didn’t expect this. It’s just funny, is all. The song.”

I flatten my eyebrows. I don’t know what’s so funny about _Back In The U.S.S.R._ It’s a Beach Boys satire, not a fucking sitcom.

“Because of the Russian thing,” he says, like this an explanation. (It’s not.)

“It’s the Beatles.” I feel a bit lost. Every interaction with this man makes me feel lost. I’ve never met such a confusing, awkward, unsettlingly freckled person in my life.

“Oh! That band you like!” He stops laughing long enough to skate over toward me, so we meet in centre ice. “I looked them up. They’re apparently popular?”

I blink. I feel faint.

“What?”

“Yeah, and they’ve got so many songs. I was asking Penny about them—she apparently knows them too.”

He’s fucking with me. He’s absolutely fucking with me.

“Anyway, yeah, so, good recommendation!” He grins. He’s serious. He’s actually serious.

“Were you raised in a cult?” It blurts out before I can stop it. “Or in a hole? Were you taken by wolves as a child?”

“Uh—” his grin slips. “No.”

“Locked in a room? The spawn of Evangelicals? Home schooled?”

The grin turns into a frown.

“You’ve seriously never heard of the Beatles?” I continue. “This isn’t some elaborate prank? Bunce didn’t put you up to this?”

“No!” It comes out like a bark, and his chin tilts out, indignant. “I just dunno much music. I played a lot of hockey as a kid, is all.” He glowers at me. “I was just thanking you for the fucking recommendation, Jesus Christ.”

“Give me your phone.” I hold my hand out. He looks suspicious. He should. This is the most surreal five minutes of my life, and I feel like I’ve completely lost touch with reality. “Now, Snow.”

He digs into his pocket and hands me a beat-up looking mobile that could barely pass as a smart phone. I open it up and scroll through his apps. No Spotify. No Apple Music. No _Amazon_ music. I open his iTunes. Nothing there.

I stare up at him.

“How do you listen to music? You don’t have anything on here.”

His large freckled hand pulls through his hair and he shrugs. It seems to be all he does. Steal treadmills and say impossible things and shrug.

“Dunno. Just listen to the radio or whatever’s on.” I know he’s telling the truth, because one of the six— _six!_ —apps on his phone is the Absolute Radio app, squeezed in next to a hotmail icon.

I go to his App store, type in a search, and promptly download Spotify. I make his account for him, one of the free ones, and set his password as _JesusfuckingChristyoureweird_ , and then search my name to find my Spotify profile. I scroll through my page, following half the playlists I have there. (I also make a note that several of my practise playlists are public, which they shouldn’t be.) (Those are entirely self-indulgent, and not meant for popular consumption.) I avoid those, scroll until I hit the Beatles playlist, follow that as well, and then hand it back to him.

“There. You’re welcome.”

He stares at his phone. He has blue eyes. Blue like shredded ice that’s been spray-painted. They’re huge and wide, now, staring in amazement. He looks absolutely awed by the idea of downloading an app.

“You—thanks.” He keeps scrolling through. “This is so much music.”

“Yes. Well.” I adjust my jumper, tug at my gloves, and turn to go. “Now you can share music privileges.”

“Thanks, Vla—aaaazz.” He coughs, shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Baz.” He clears his throat. “Well, I’m gonna take off—I’m teaching a kiddie hockey class, and I need to go pick up the supplies. So. Er. Yeah. See ya.”

I flick my hand toward him in as dismissive of a way as I can, and turn my back as I set up to go through Mordelia’s choreography again. I don’t turn until I hear the _shhissh shisshh shishhh_ of Snow’s skates and then the clunk of the rink door closing.

***

Almost none of my footage from today is useable.

My routine videos are off, Mordelia kept falling, Baby Bunce was sloppy and I forgot to hit record while I was demonstrating, because the two of them collaborated to drive me up a wall.

I sigh, setting my laptop down on the sofa next to me. This is needlessly annoying.

I have a strict schedule for my posting. I do two videos a week, with Instagram stories and photos throughout, along with several tweets. It’s how I stay relevant, how I stay visible. My knees and ankles have conspired against me to keep me from ever again being able to do the suicidal, impossible jumps and tricks that get inexplicably harder each year and are required to score _any_ points, which means my goals of going to another Worlds or making the Olympics are gone.

Fiona says I shouldn’t dwell on it. It only makes me angry, and there’s nothing I can do—this is the body I was given. This is my fate. I can only make do with what I have: incomparable talent, two decades of technique, and a pretty face.

I’ll skate as long as I can, keep my reputation, and then slowly retire into coaching. And if I make a few pounds off Youtube ad revenue in the process, who am I to complain?

I tap my fingers against my laptop for a moment, and then get up to make some tea. It’s gone dark while I’ve been working and only one light is on in the living room, which makes the whole place look rather like a crypt. Fiona’s penchant for punishingly dark decor sometimes makes me feel like I’m living in catacombs, rather than a second floor flat in the middle of Winchester. She refuses to let me redecorate, even though I’m here more than she is.

The only thing I like about this flat is the huge wall of records that Fiona has set up in the living room. Rows and rows of faded old dust jackets. Most of them are from my grandparents, and they never get listened to. They’re displayed just under Fiona and my mum’s medals and trophies. There are several of mine up as well. It’s a wall full of Pitch history. Excellence on ice.

Half the playlists on my phone are made up of songs from those records, to be honest. In my mind, they go hand-in-hand with skating. Learning to skate, practising, organising routines—

I pause while steeping the tea, and then rush to grab my phone.

“Hello everyone,” I say, hitting record before I can second-guess myself or go fix my hair or change. Fiona says people like to see me “causal” at home. “I wanted to do something a bit different for today’s video. As you all know, I’m a fan of old music. I like to choreograph my showcase routines to the classics.”

This is good. I’m already planning the editing—I can splice in footage of old routines. My Worlds routine should work nicely. It’s a good opportunity to remind everyone of my success.

I take a sip of my tea and continue. “Well, today I met someone who doesn’t know who The Beatles are.”

I pause for dramatic effect and stare into the camera.

“Just in case there are somehow more of you out there, I’d like to take this opportunity to fix that.”


	5. If I Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hip abductions, wipe outs, dung beetles and Orlando Bloom. Bum out, can't lose.

**SIMON**

Sharing a rink with Vlad isn’t so bad, even if he is a giant prick.

He keeps to himself for the most part, and he’s stopped throwing shit at me, and he doesn’t get in my way.

Also he’s brilliant to watch.

I’ve never seen someone skate the way he does. Fast. Beautiful. _Ruthless_. I can only imagine what he’d be like if he had a stick in his hand. Line him up and put him in front of the goal and he’d be unstoppable. No one would see him coming.

He’s running through one of his routines this morning, one of the big ones. I know because he always does the big ones all the way through, and he records them twice, and he doesn’t even look at me when he does it. Usually I’ll head to the sidelines, just to give him more space. He’s never said anything, but I know he notices, because after that he’ll deliberately avoid my side of the ice when I’m doing drills.

He’s got some song on I don’t know, but do like—it’s probably on one of the forty playlists he downloaded to my bloody phone, but I haven’t listened to them yet—and he’s spinning in time to the beat. Just around and around and around, like a dark tornado on the ice.

He sets up a jump and pushes into it, pushing off the ice, tucking his arms in and spinning midair before coming down—

Too hard. Way too hard.

“Fuck,” I shout, before I know what I’m doing. “Fuck, are you okay?”

I’m across the ice in a blink, heading straight to where Baz landed on one leg and slid out. “Baz, you alright—”

“Don’t interrupt me,” he hisses, getting to his feet quickly and skating away. He does a turn, some hand flourish, and keeps going through his choreography like he didn’t just completely eat it.

“Are you—”

“Don’t _interrupt me!_ ” he growls, spinning again. His leg is stiff. His movements are jerky. But he keeps going, throwing his arms out, going through the moves until the music fades out and he comes to a stop, panting.

The arena is silent. I’m scared to even fucking breathe.

Slowly, Baz drops his arms and turns to face me. His dark hair is in his eyes, and he’s still breathing heavy.

“Your leg—”

“Falling is a part of skating. Falling happens. You have to keep going.” His eyes are narrowed and he’s hissing at me. “Don’t _ever_ interrupt me in the middle of a routine.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” I frown at him. “I was just worried you hurt yourself.”

He heads to the boards to get his things. “You’re a hockey player, aren’t you? You should know better than anyone that when you fall, you get back up.”

“Dunno.” I shrug. “I don’t usually get hit.”

Baz grabs his water bottle and squeezes it in a perfect fountain into his mouth. He wipes the back of his hand over his lips and glares at me. “It’s a good thing you’re in goal, then. You’re so slow, you’d be an easy target.”

It’s a low fucking blow. I know I’m slow. But he didn’t need to bloody point it out.

“Fuck you,” I growl, turning away. “Sorry I was worried about your fucking leg.”

“I don’t need your concern, Snow, though I’m deeply touched.” He pushes off the boards, and I don’t miss the grimace. “I’m calling it for the day. Enjoy the ice to yourself for the rest of the morning.”

“Are you sure—”

“You skate slow because you have structural imbalances and your strides are too small,” he interupts. “You need to work on your hamstrings. Focus on your hip abduction. Do dry land sprints.”

“Hip abduction—”

“Side-to-side jumps, Snow. First comes the strength, then the technique.” He swings his bag over his shoulder. “And don’t stand up when you accelerate.”

“Wait, what—”

But Baz is off the ice and pushing through the double doors at the end of the hall before I can bug him any more.

***

That night at practice, I watch the other players when we start the speed drills. Mostly I watch Hummy Davidovich, this huge Russian guy with a weird name, because he’s built a bit like me—except I’m shorter than he is, so he’s like me times ten. Sure enough, when he goes to take off, he bends down low and stays low through his acceleration. I follow him and catch myself standing up almost as soon as I accelerate.

On the next lap around, I keep low and try to stick out my legs more, like he does.

I go faster than I’ve ever gone before.

“Holy fuck,” I say, cutting to a stop. Years. I’ve spent _years_ trying to figure out how to fix my skating, and in one goddamn day—

“Засранец! Stop slacking!” Someone punches me in the arm as they skate by, and I snap back to focus. Crouching low, I keep my butt out and my skates angled and I take off, staying low across the ice, gaining on Hummy. I don’t catch him, but still.

I let out a whoop as I go around again, keeping up the speed. Hummy looks over his shoulder at me and grins. I still don’t know what the Russian nickname he gave me means, but I figure it’s something fun. He clearly doesn’t mind me.

“Stop chasing me!” he bellows, throwing out an arm. It catches me square in the chest and I go barrelling toward the boards, hitting them full speed and knocking the wind out of me. Coach Mac blows his whistle.

“Stop fucking around! Snow, good speed. Now get in goal. Davidovich, stop beating up the kid.”

I take off toward goal, trying to keep my speed up. This is incredible. I don’t want to stop skating for a moment. I nearly crash into the net but cut out at the last minute, saving myself from a really embarrassing collision.

I take every chance I can to get out of the net throughout practice and skate as fast as I can toward the puck. I do laps around the net while I’m waiting, and Mac nearly throws a bench at me, he gets so hacked off. 

I’m still buzzing after, and I head back to the ice when the other guys go home, circling over and over until I remember that I’m supposed to have locked up already, and Pen will kill me if I miss the bus again. I zoom through closing and sprint all the way to the bus stop.

Speed has never been my skill—not on ice, not on dry land. But if just one thing can make such an impact, what could I be like if I really put my mind into practising?

While I wait for the bus, jumping up and down and nearly buzzing with excitement, I do stop to wonder, just for a moment, why it’s taken this long for someone to point out my bad form.

I trained under Mage for years, and then I went to the CHL and worked with real professionals, and then even in Glasgow we had a cracker of a team. So why didn’t anyone ever pull me aside and say “hey, if you want to go fast, here’s how to fix it?”

I guess it just didn’t matter, since I’m meant for goal, and there’s no need for a fast goalie.

But still.

***

Penny is still up when I get back to the flat, her books spread out on the creaky old kit trunk we use as a coffee table. I love that trunk. I’ve dragged it all over with me, and it’s covered in stickers from teams I’ve played for and brands and just general nonsense. Pen says it smells like sweaty ballsack, but it can’t smell _too_ bad, because she still studies at it.

She’s got one of the _Lord of the Rings_ movies on, but I dunno which one. Despite living with a scholar, I’ve never watched the movies. I just never have the time.

(Well, I guess that’s not true. I’ve seen the first one, back when I was sixteen and had just made friends with Penny. We weren’t even friends, really. I didn’t have any friends, because I didn’t know anyone except other guys from hockey, and I wasn’t friends with any of them. But Mage had just bought Watford, and I was around sometimes, and Penny’s mum made her invite me to her birthday party.) (Turns out Penny didn’t have any friends either, so the birthday party was just the two of us sitting there watching _The Lord of Rings_.) (It was bloody fucking awkward, until she just started talking about Orlando Bloom, and I started just sort of grunting agreements, and I guess she decided I wasn’t so bad.) (Given that Penny is still kind of my only friend, I’m really glad I didn’t say the wrong thing about Orlando Bloom’s hair.)

“Oh good, I was just about to take a break,” Penny says, looking up as I dump my duffle bag and stick on the ground. (My kit lives in a corner and Pen is nice enough to not say anything about it.) “Want to watch?”

I glance at the TV where people are running around and looking pure stressed.

“I’m kind of beat. Rain check?”

Penny narrows her eyes as I collapse on the sofa behind her, but she pauses the movie. “Practice go okay?”

“Brilliant, actually. Baz gave me some tips on my speed this morning, and it really paid off. Mac noticed.” Mage wasn’t there to notice, which I sort of wish he had been, for once.

“Baz gave you pointers? Baz? I thought you two were enemies.”

“Eh.” I shrug one shoulder. “He’s not so bad. He’s fast as hell. And his music taste is great.”

Penny makes some kind of snorting noise.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

She turns around and rolls her eyes. “It’s just. Baz is like an oldies _superfan_. And you don’t exactly have a great metric for music. I mean, no offence, Si. You’re the best. But you have like, no pop culture knowledge.”

“That’s not true!” I wave my hand at the TV. “I watch movies all the time.”

“You watch weird black and white movies that come on at 2 a.m. You’re like an old man.” She pauses and tilts her head. “I mean, I guess Baz is too.”

“Says the girl who reads the same book over and over and watches the same bloody movies every day.” I cross my arms against my chest and stick out my chin. “And I’ll have you know, I’m expanding my musical knowledge. I’ve got Spotify on my phone, now.”

“Oh my God.” Penny shakes her head and goes back to the tv. “I need to finish watching this. So either watch along or go to bed and listen to whatever music you’ve supposedly got on your Spotify.”

“The Beatles!” I argue, getting up. I place a hand on her head to balance myself and she pushes me off. “I listen to the Beatles now!”

“Name a Beatle.”

“Uh.” I pause. “Dung.”

“Go to bed.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter, shuffling toward my bedroom. “But not because you told me to.”

“Goodnight, Simon.”

I open my door, then pause. “Wait. Michael Jackson was in the Beatles as a kid, wasn’t he?”

Penny stares me down, her expression not changing. “Ask Baz.”

I feel like that’s a no.


	6. Get Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leggings, coffee, and the cultural awareness of a slug. Baz goes on the offensive and Simon asks a very important question. I dunno what chia seeds are, and at this point I’m too scared to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay on a chapter. I'm writing slow. slay me.
> 
> thank you @messofthejess and @penpanoply for the beta read. Thank you @tbazzsnow for being a yoghurt-covered goddess.
> 
> Follow the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist on Spotify!

**BAZ**

“Are my legs extended enough?”

“No. More.”

“Like this?”

“Sure.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I’m focusing.”

“How do you jump like that?”

“I practise.”

“Can you do a backflip on ice?”

“No.”

“Was Michael Jackson in the Beatles?”

I turn around, nearly dropping my phone. I’ve been trying to set up my video so that I can film my vlog this week, and I’ve been mostly ignoring Snow while I do it. But this cannot go unaddressed.

“What?”

Snow stands on the other end of the ice, bouncing a puck back and forth off the opposite sides of his stick. He’s surprisingly good at it.

“Michael Jackson. He was in the Beatles, right?”

“Give me your stick.” I cross the ice to him.

“What?”

“Your stick, give me your stick. Get in goal,” I snap, sticking my hand out.

“Why?”

“Because I want to throw things at you, and the idea of sending a puck at your head seems extremely appealing right now.”

Snow’s face breaks open in a resplendent grin.

“Oh, that would be brill if you’d shoot on me, actually. Hold on….” He crouches down, sticks out his butt and speeds off toward the boards. I keep wanting to tell him he doesn’t need to stick his bum out that far in order to accelerate, but he looks so ridiculous doing it that I don’t have the heart to correct him.

He comes zipping back over a moment later with an extra stick, and then shoves a helmet on his head.

“Go for my left!” he shouts, his voice gleeful. “That’s my weak side!”

I had intended this to be punishment, and I’m not exactly sure what to do with the fact that Snow is apparently very excited about this.

Staring down at the stick in my hands, I frown. I didn’t really think this through. I’ve never hit a hockey puck before. I don’t think I’ve ever even held a stick before.

I place the stick on the ice and line myself up like I’m going to take a swing at a golf ball.

“You’ll want to crouch more,” Snow shouts.

I glare at him. “I’m not trying to learn hockey, I’m trying to give you a concussion.”

I pull back and hit the puck with all my strength, and it goes careening toward the net. Snow throws himself in the way of it and the puck bounces off his rib cage.

“Sorry!” I say, before I can stop myself. “I was aiming for the net.”

Snow pops up and passes the puck back to me.

“That was great! Do it again.”

“This is—I don’t—”

“So if Michael Jackson wasn’t in The Beatles, who was?” he asks. I slam the puck at him again. This time he catches it in one hand before shooting it back.

“John Lennon? Paul McCartney?”

“Lenin?”

“Yes, John Lennon.” I aim toward his head, and the puck shoots somewhere near his knee. He just kicks it back.

“That explains the U.S.S.R. stuff, then.”

“What?” I can’t even focus on where I’m aiming the puck this time. I’ve lost control of my hands. I’ve lost control of my body. I don’t understand anything this man says.

The puck slides between his knees.

“Oh, nicely done,” he shouts, turning to grab the puck, apparently completely unbothered that I, someone who has never played hockey in my life, just scored on him. “Again?”

“What? I—no.” I toss the stick back to him and he catches it. “I have to record an axel for my video this week. I—oh, fuck.” I never stopped recording. I’ve just filmed a useless amount of video of me shooting on Snow while being asked stupid questions. I turn and skate back toward the boards where I left my phone and turn it off. Snow follows me.

“Wait, are you on Youtube? Do you have a channel?”

“I’m a professional figure skater, of course I have a channel. Everyone has a channel.” I check the video. Seven minutes of us fucking around. Seven minutes of wasted phone battery. 

“Oh.” Snow scuffs at the ice with his skate. “I don’t watch much Youtube.”

“I’m starting to realise that you have the cultural awareness of a slug, so this doesn’t surprise me at all.” I set the phone back up and angle it so that Snow and his net won’t be in the background.

Secretly, I’m glad Snow doesn’t watch Youtube. I’d be mortified if he ever found the video where I talked about him and his absurd lack of taste.

“Look, so, er—” Snow tugs at his hair for a moment. “My hockey class got cancelled today, because a few of the kids have chicken pox.”

I take a step back. “Alright….”

“Would you want to get lunch?”

My face must do something unexpected, because he rushes to continue. “Just, I wanted to talk to you more about skating. And music. And stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Yeah, stuff.” He shrugs. “I just moved back, you know? I’m trying to make friends.”

“Friends.”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Fine.” I didn’t expect to say that, but it comes out regardless. “Now get out of my shot—I need to film.”

“Yeah?”

“I said fine, didn’t I?”

“Brilliant.” His smile bursts onto his face. “I’ll just, er, leave you to it, then. So. Yeah.”

He skates backward toward his half of the ice, grinning at me. I ignore him, turn back to face the camera, and take a deep breath before pressing play.

“Today I’m going to illustrate some basic jumps for beginners. In last week’s video, I got some really interesting questions about technique, so these jumps will show you how to begin building the foundation needed to do something more challenging. So, first we begin with….”

**SIMON**

Baz is waiting for me in the carpark after his morning class. He hasn’t even changed out of his workout clothes—he’s still wearing leggings. I couldn’t imagine wearing leggings out and about my normal life.

“I’m driving,” he says, and immediately begins walking. I hurry to catch up.

“Works for me, I don’t have a car.”

He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head and keeps walking.

“Also, I don’t have time for lunch, so we’re just getting coffee.”

Some of my enthusiasm dips at that. I don’t want coffee. I want a sandwich. But then, sometimes coffee places will have sandwiches and stuff around. It could shake out. I could get a croissant or something.

Baz leads us to a sleek black car that’s parked at the far back. I dunno know much about cars, but I know this is posh as all. I wipe my hand against my trousers real fast before reaching for the door handle. Just in case.

I dunno where is good around here to get coffee, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because Baz just takes off immediately without asking me for suggestions. Which works great for me, because I hate having to make food decisions. It drives Pen up the wall. But I just get overwhelmed by it—when you have _so many_ food options, how do you just pick?

“So, er…” I scrounge around for a conversation topic, trying to break the awkward silence of the ride. “Where are you from?”

Baz keeps his eyes on the road as we go through the roundabout. “Here.”

“Here like—”

“Here. Hampshire. I grew up thirty minutes outside of Winchester.”

“Oh, shit, really?” I glance out the window. If we’d taken the second exit on the roundabout, it would have headed us toward where I lived with Mage—a Winchester subdivision full of twee houses made to look Tudor. I glance at Baz, then down at the leather seat I’m sitting on. He probably grew up in some listed mansion. “I grew up here too.”

“Mhmm.” He keeps staring ahead.

“You know, I’m surprised we never ran into each other before? I used to skate at Watford all the time, back before I moved to Canada.”

“I moved to London when I was 16 so I could focus on training for the Olympics.” He says it so matter of fact, like this isn’t wildly fucking impressive.

“Shit, cor.” I lean back in his posh seat. “Did you make it?”

He finally looks over at me. “You’ll just have to Google.”

Oh, yeah. I forget that Googling is a thing.

Baz takes us through another roundabout and deeper into the city before he pulls so neatly into a parallel park that I almost miss it.

“I don’t have time to wait for you all day,” he says, sliding out of the car. “Out you go.”

I quickly unbuckle myself and hurry after him.

He’s brought us to some hipster looking chain cafe—one of those kinds with the brick and steel and ductwork. One of those places where one cup of coffee could set you back a tenner.

My heart falls when I look at the menu. They’ve only got vegan crepes. I’m not mad about a crepe.

“What are you doing here?” asks the bloke behind the counter as we walk up. He’s got curly dark hair and big-ass glasses, and he’s scowling at us. “I thought you were too busy for lunch on weekdays?”

“Plans changed. I’ll have the usual. Snow?” Baz glances at me. I glance at the guy behind the counter.

“Er. Black coffee. And have you got anything other than vegan crepes?”

The guy looks directly at Baz, an expression of pure annoyance. I dunno what I’ve done to deserve it.

“We have a vegan quiche and a chia seed muffin.”

I dunno what chia seeds are, and at this point I’m too scared to ask.

“Right, yeah, I’ll have a crepe then.” I grab my wallet and pull out a few wrinkled notes. “And I’ve got Baz’s drink as well.”

The barista is still staring Baz in the eyes. I dunno what his deal is, but it’s making me dead uncomfortable.

“Kind of you, Snow,” Baz says, not looking away from the barista. “Dev, we’ll be in the back.”

Baz turns from the register and heads toward the back of the cafe before I even have a chance to grab my change. The bloke—Dev?—hands it to me and I shove some notes in the tip jar before hurrying off after Baz. I feel like this is becoming a theme—me, chasing after him.

He’s grabbed us a table under the window and he’s settled himself and his limbs in, looking comfortable.

“Come here much, then?” I pull out the flimsy-looking aluminum chair and sit in it. My bum barely fits, and I feel like I’m going to break it. I try to shift, carefully, without causing a full-on topple.

Baz nods toward the counter.

“My cousin works here.”

I turn back to stare at the guy behind the counter. “That’s your cousin?”

Baz doesn’t even blink, just starts shredding a sugar packet. “Unfortunately.”

“You must drink a lot of coffee, then.” I kind of cringe. This is one of the most stupid conversations I’ve ever had.

“Not really,” he says, staring out the window. This is not going to plan. Not that there was a plan.

“So, you live nearby?”

Baz sighs, so long and loud that it sounds like a hurricane. “Yes. My aunt and I live in the building next door, actually.” He pauses. “Well, mostly it’s just me. My aunt got hired to coach some up and coming Russian skater who is barely older than a foetus, so she’s been out of the country for some time.”

This is so much information. Baz is an Olympian, a brilliant skater, clearly rich, and heir to a skating empire. And he wears leggings in public.

“Wow,” is all I say. I’ve met some of the hockey greats, and somehow Baz is shaping up to be the most intimidating person I’ve ever met.

“So, your turn then.” He waves a hand dismissively at me.

“My turn?”

“Yes. Your turn to tell me something. This was your idea, after all.” He locks his eyes on me, suddenly all attentiveness. The way that he transitions from dismissive to intense is almost too fast to follow.

“Er—” It _was_ my idea. Except I didn’t exactly think this through. “I live right down the street, actually. With Penny. From Watford?”

Baz tilts his head. “Are you together?”

“What?” I sputter. “No. No way. She’s just my mate. She’s my best friend—known her since I was sixteen.”

“So how did you meet, then?”

“Well, Penny’s mum made her hang out with me a lot, on account of how she felt bad for me.” I pause just as Dev appears with our food. The coffee smells amazing, but the crepe is green. I look up at Baz—his drink is nearly 80% whipped cream. Leggings and whipped cream coffee. Blimey. Baz is a white girl.

“Why did she feel bad for you?”

I shrug.

“I was a weird kid, I guess. Didn’t have many friends, I got home schooled, all I really focused on was hockey.”

Baz slaps the table.

“I _knew it_ ,” he crows, his face breaking into a smug smile. “Homeschooling explains it all.”

“Explains what?”

Baz waves his hand at me. “You. Your complete lack of knowledge of anything pop culture or enjoyable. The figures are adding up.”

I shrug and duck my head. I don’t want him to see the way my face starts to look like a tomato when I’m embarrassed.

“Yeah, I mean. That’s sort of why I asked you to get lunch?” I shove a piece of my green crepe in my mouth and chew, just to give myself a second to pick out my words. “I want to know more about music. I grew up in sort of a weird way, and I feel like I’m spending my whole twenties just like, playing catch up, you know? Trying to experience all the things I missed out on as a kid because I was too busy. I’ve got Penny walking me through all the movies I should have seen. I was thinking you could, I dunno. Be my music coach.” I look back up at him. “And maybe help me skate faster?”

Baz is staring at me through slanted eyes.

“You want me to teach you about music?”

I nod. “Yeah. I mean, you seem to have good taste. And I’m trying to get to know more people around here and stuff, so…”

Baz shakes his head, looking amazed. “Snow. I have waited my whole life for someone to recognise my impeccable music taste.” He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in his chair, one arm slung behind him, his legs crossed. “We can start by decades.”

Panic starts to flare. Oh, God. What if Baz is like Penny? What if he takes this as like, a literal lesson? Penny tried to do that—I asked her what movies I should see, and she ended up looking up the syllabi for all these film critique classes and drawing up a schedule and everything, and I had to eventually ask her to forget it.

“Er, no, let’s just start small, yeah?” I say quickly. “Let’s start with the Beatles! What’s a good album?”

“What’s a good album?” Baz sputters. “That’s—you don’t—” He closes his mouth and I can _see_ him trying to find the words. “We will go album by album. We’ll start with _Please Please Me_. It’s on Spotify, or also the playlists I sent you.”

Fuck. He’s going to treat this like homework.

“Brilliant!” It comes out more energetic than I meant, so I try to pull it back. “I mean, just. Yeah.” I take a breath. “Maybe we can meet for coffee this weekend and talk about it? After I listen, I mean.”

Did that sound like a date? That may have sounded like a date. I dunno if Baz is even gay. I mean. He’s wearing leggings. But Pen would say that’s an assumption.

“I’m going to a gala this weekend. I’ll be in London for several days.”

“Oh, right.” I nod. “Yeah, I’m gonna be pretty busy with practice, too. Our first game is coming up next week, so. You know.” I raise a fist. “Go Wyverns.”

Baz taps his fingers on the table and watches me. “Snow, can I ask you something?”

I shrug, and he leans forward.

“ _How_ are you a professional hockey player? No offence, just—you don’t seem very good.”

My hackles go up. How would he know? He’s never seen me play. All he’s seen me do is mess about in the net.

“I’m better than I look,” I growl. “I’m a good goalie. Once, I got pulled as an extra attacker and I scored on goal. Do you know how many goalies have managed to do that?”

Baz raises an eyebrow. “Not many, I assume?”

“And, if I can get my speed up, I could be a good forward. So don’t slag me off till you’ve seen me play, alright?”

Baz holds up his hands as if in surrender. “There’s no need to get so titchy, Snow. I was just asking a question and repeating what I’ve heard.”

“What you’ve heard?” People have been talking about how I’m bad at hockey? That stings.

“You know how the skating community is.” He takes a long sip of his drink, and then licks the residual whipped cream off the edge. “Word gets around.”

He puts his drink down and then glances at his watch. He’s got one of those techie phone watches, the ones with the big ass face that’ll sing you a fucking song and stuff.

“Well, this has been thrilling, but I have to get back to the centre.” He stands up. “Need a ride?”

I shake my head. I’m free till practice this evening, so I’m just going to go home and try not to dwell on the weirdest coffee date of my life. Baz doesn’t seem plussed by my refusal.

“See you next week, then,” he says, gathering his keys and his phones. “And remember—start with _Please Please Me_. And don’t skip songs.”


	7. Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends! I'm back with another thrilling installment of "ban doesn't know shit about ice sports!"
> 
> Follow the [**Twist and Shout**](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1VHzA0sHSux2S4DbKXfSnl?si=eguHJLhvScqDbW-bFeRdmg) playlist on Spotify!

**BAZ**

The hotel room bed is hideously uncomfortable. They always are—I can’t recall a single time I’ve had a comfortable night’s sleep before a large performance.

It’s beige, too. Just beige as far as the eye can see.

Adjusting myself on the bed, I turn my attention back to video editing. I’d like to have something already mostly done, so that I can post a video about this weekend quickly. Wellbelove has agreed to film my performance tomorrow so I’ll have snippets of it available to plug in and go.

As a kid, I never realised being a professional skater was going to require working on my brand so much.

I’ve just about finished editing when my phone buzzes. It’s probably Wellbelove, begging me to join her downstairs at the bar, like the lush she is. Or it’s Fiona, up late and watching videos.

The phone buzzes again. Then again. Then again.

[unknown number]: **this is proper funky**

[unknown number]: **didn’t expect it to be so dancy i guess**

[unknown number]: **wont lie, i was dancing to it while closing tonight**

[unknown number]: **this is simon, btw**

[unknown number[: **i hope your competition is going well!**

I stare at my phone. Why is Snow texting me? How is Snow texting me?

BP: _How did you get my number?_

SS: **i’m closing, i just checked the staff contact list at the front desk**

BP: _What do you mean, closing’?_

SS: **i close the ice every night. clean, zamboni, stuff like that**

Snow is our janitor? I had no idea. How odd. Professional hockey player/zamboni driver. What do they do during games? Do they get another person in, or does Snow have to go dash to the back to smooth the ice during half time?

SS: **i plugged in my phone to the system tonight and listened to the whole album**

SS: **i really like twist and shout**

SS: **dancy!**

A vivid image of Snow dancing with a mop pops into my mind. I can see it almost too well. His broad shoulders moving out of time to the beat, nearly tripping around with his poor coordination.

It’s oddly appealing.

No. I will _not_ find Lug attractive. He’s a _hockey player_. He skates like a T-Rex.

BP: _Everyone likes Twist and Shout_

SS: **i also like boys**

I nearly drop my phone. This conversation just took a very unexpected turn.

The back of my neck feels hot and my cheeks tingle, the way they do when someone has just uncannily tapped into your thoughts, and you consider for a moment whether they can read minds or if you accidentally spoke them aloud.

Snow likes boys. I wouldn’t have guessed it. He has that dripping masculinity thing going for him, aside from the lost-puppy act. I always thought of hockey players as a bit overly performative of their heterosexuality. But then again, Snow apparently isn’t a very good hockey player.

A thought occurs to me as I pick at my bed sheet. Is _this_ why he texted me? Is this some kind of 11 pm _booty call_?

BP: _We finally have something in common, Snow._

SS: **you know ive just realised how that sounded and i meant like, i like the song boys not like, i like to date boys**

I want to set myself on fire. I want to self immolate right here and take this beige hotel room with me.

SS: **i mean dating them is fine!**

SS: **people can do whatever**

SS: **i don’t, though**

SS: **i mean, i havent**

SS: **sure ive thought about it but like everyone has thought about it you know?**

SS: **not that im against it, im sure its great**

SS: **i’m sure its awesome, actually!!**

SS: **i deffo see the appeal**

I stare at my phone in growing horror. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this. I don’t even want to be _friends_ with Snow, no less deal with his sexualty crisis at 11 pm the night before my performance showcase.

BP: _I was talking about the song as well._

Nothing wrong with a harmless lie.

SS: **oh**

SS: **lol**

SS: **sorry**

SS: **and sorry for thinking youre gay**

BP: _I am gay._

SS: **oh**

SS: **yeah i mean i figured**

SS: **with the leggings and all, is all**

BP: _Snow._

SS: **how is your competition!**

Simon Snow is the most confusing person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Every conversation we have is more bizarre than the last. Why is he texting me? Is he that desperate for friends? And if so, why would someone choose _me_? I’m notoriously aloof.

He’s a bit of an enigma, to be honest. He’s come out of nowhere, specially formed and placed to drive me insane.

BP: _It’s not a competition, it’s a showcase._

BP: _And I don’t perform until tomorrow._

Clicking out of my video editing software, I pull up Google.

 _Simon Snow_ , I type. Then, for good measure, _hockey_.

Dozens of links pop up immediately. His stats from the CHL. A few player profile pages. A handful of videos. I click on the first one. It’s from a Glasgow game last year. 

_Backup goalie scores winning goal as extra attacker._

The video is poor quality, but it’s easy to spot Snow, even bulkier in his hockey uniform, skating like an idiot and streaking across the ice. He slams into an oncoming attacker, sending them flying into the boards. Someone on his team passes him the puck just before he hits centre ice.

To my absolute amazement, Snow pulls back, without a moment’s hesitation, and shoots. Hard. It goes flying, zooming in a neat line between men, and lands firmly in the opposite net.

Seconds before the video cuts out, Snow tears his helmet off, a beaming smile on his face.

I click back to the search page and keep scrolling until I come across an article from some local Scottish paper about the goal.

 _Snow, 22, is a native of Winchester, England._ I click through the article, scrolling by more photos—his team photo, a roster photo, a picture of him in uniform from the CHL. _Snow credits his foster father, David Mage, with supporting and inspiring his hockey career_. _“Mage took me in when I was a kid, and I was mad for hockey back then. I said I wanted to play, and he saw something in me, I guess, and believed in me. He really made it happen.”_

I stare, dumbfounded, at the screen. Mage is Snow’s foster father? _Mage_? 

SS: **oh, cool**

SS: **you doing the fast beatles routine or the longer one with the lady singing?**

SS: **either way, you’ll do great!**

I’ve met Mage a total of ten times, and each time was more unpleasant than the last. He’s a small-minded, unpleasant man who seems to be carrying a superiority complex larger than mine. He acts like running an ice arena is equivalent to changing the world. I don’t know Snow well—I barely know Snow at all—but he seems as different from his foster father as is humanly possible. He seems kind and genuinely interested and alarmingly unaware. But dedicated.

Clearly dedicated.

I pick up my phone to text him back when there’s a knock on my door, followed by three more immediate, impatient raps. Putting my laptop aside, I get up and go to answer it.

Wellbelove is leaning against my doorway, her hair pulled into a neat knot, decked out entirely in pink.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says, pushing past me and into the room. “I want you to watch videos with me.” She pauses by the door to my closet and runs her fingers over my costume for tomorrow. Her pink polish stands out against the black.

“Do you think you have enough sheer netting and rhinestones?” she asks, running her thumb over one of the leather panels that will cross my chest.

I reach around her and pluck the costume off the closet door and place it carefully inside.

“This is my first showcase since my injury. I plan to make an impression.” I want to make sure no one has ruled me out. I want to make sure no one will ever underestimate a Pitch.

“No one is certainly going to miss you in _that_.” She moves to my bed and sits down, uninvited, and grabs my laptop. “So, I have three strong candidates and I want you to watch some of their past routines and give me your thoughts.” She opens my laptop and trails off as her face screws up into some kind of odd expression. “Did I just open a wank bank or something?”

“Stop it.” I snatch the laptop back from her and quickly close out of all the tabs that have anything to do with Snow. “I was doing research.”

“On a hockey player?”

“On _the_ hockey player.” I slam the laptop closed and sit at the other end of the bed. “He’s one of the ones on the new team practicing at Watford, and he’s been stalking me. I was doing reconnaissance.”

“He’s stalking you?”

I pull up the text thread and hand my mobile over to Wellbelove. She scrolls through it quickly, her eyebrows getting higher and higher.

“What are you talking about here? Why is he texting you about music?”

“He doesn’t know who The Beatles are, so I’m teaching him. We went for coffee and agreed to go through their works by album.”

Wellbelove stares at me.

“That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

I shake my head. “He may be the most stupid man I’ve ever met.”

Wellbelove hands back my phone with a snort. “No, I’m serious. That’s the worst come on I’ve ever seen.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s never heard of The Beatles? Yeah, right.”

“I think he’s genuine. You don’t know him, Wellbelove, he’s like… he’s like he grew up in some hockey cult or something. He has no clue how to function as a normal human.”

“He’s lying.” She shakes her head, her words direct and clipped. “He’s pretending he doesn’t know them to get your attention and get an excuse to talk to you.”

Now it’s my turn to snort.

“He’s not lying. I don’t think he could lie without choking.” I tap my phone. “And you saw his absolute breakdown at the first mere hint of gayness.”

“He may not know _why_ he’s lying for your attention,” she insists. “But he’s lying.”

“He’s not lying,” I repeat. I’m not sure why I’m so certain of it. Maybe because it seems more likely that there is a human out there with no concept of The Beatles than it is that Simon Snow is trying to flirt with me.

“Mark my words,” Wellbelove insists. “Next coffee date, he’s going to be far more flirty. He’s going to keep texting you and try to get to know you.” And evil grin takes over her face. “You have entered the first act of a romcom.”

“Stop it. Never.” I shove the laptop back at her. “Show me your clips.” She shakes her head, still grinning.

“No, now I want to watch Simon’s hockey games.”

“You don’t want to watch hockey.”

“Maybe I do. I’m a huge hockey fan.”

“Name one thing about hockey,” I challenge. Wellbelove frowns at me.

“Sticks.”

“Just show me the bloody clips.”

She scrunches her nose at me and begins typing in the names of the clips she wants to show me. 

I adjust myself so I’m sitting slightly closer to her, and deliberately do not look at my phone.


	8. Two Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bums

**SIMON**

“Pick up your knees! Higher!”

I pump as hard as I can, extending my legs, trying to skate through the orange cones on the ice as smoothly as possible. A red ball goes flying by my head.

“Oi!” I shout, pushing around behind the net and back across the ice to where there are even more cones. Another ball flies at my head, and I duck this time.

“If you cannot dodge a foam ball you cannot dodge an angry Russian offensive wing,” Baz shouts, throwing another ball at me. I dunno where he finds all these fucking things, but he’s got a whole bag of them.

I smack it out of air and pull my legs up to jump over the row of hockey sticks. I land extremely unevenly.

A ball hits me in the back of the head.

“Oi!” I shout again, trying to pick my speed back up and put more distance between Baz and me. I sort of regret asking him to help me with this. I think part of me thought he’d say no, to be honest. I didn’t really expect him to get this into it. Chasing me around and throwing things at my head seems to be his favourite hobby.

A ball hits me in the ass.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” I pant, coming around the goal. Another ball zooms past my ear, and no sooner have I ducked than yet another bloody one hits my shoulder. Another connects with my head. How is he throwing them so fast? How many arms does he have?

“Could you fucking not!” I snarl, grabbing one of the balls from the ice and flinging it out wildly, blindly behind me.

There’s a scream that’s a bit too high to belong to Baz.

I skid out quickly, turning to look. 

Mitali Bunce is sprawled on the ice, her hair in a lopsided bun, a murderous expression on her face and a red ball sitting next to her.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

Baz and I look at each other, and for the first time since we’ve met, I can clearly read his mind. He’s thinking about making a runner.

“Fuck, you alright?” I ask, breaking first and heading toward her. Baz zooms by me, literally causing an air current, and reaches his hand out.

“Mitali, please forgive me,” he says, his tone all stiff and polite. “I was helping Snow with drills, we didn’t see you.”

“You should not be throwing _balls_ on the _ice_ ,” she hisses, adjusting her hair. She looks around. “You shouldn’t have _any_ of this out here.”

Baz has the dignity to look sorry.

“I’ll make sure Snow doesn’t bring his training equipment out in the future,” he promises.

Mother fucker.

“Mitali, I’m really—”

She holds up a hand and I fall silent.

“Trixie has called out of the toddler class this afternoon.” Her eyes are fucking scary. This is where Penny gets it. I know this look. It never ends well for me. Never.

Baz and I exchange a glance.

Mitali’s lips get so tight they almost disappear into her face. “I’m so pleased to see that you two clearly have the time and energy to take it over the class for me.”

“Mitali—”

“But I’ve got—”

She holds up her hand again and we both go silent. She knows she’s got us. Goddamnit.

“Excellent. Simon, I believe you have the keys to the closet where we store the bumpers.”

***

“I’m going to gut you,” Baz hisses as he skates by me. He’s chasing after a toddler who may actually be faster than I am. “I’m going to hang you upside down and remove your intestines and use them for my skate laces.”

“That’s gotta go against some kind of dress code policy,” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me. Probably for the best. The little’uns don’t need to hear this.

I turn back to my group. I’ve got five girls, all in pink, and not a single one of them can stand. It feels like as soon as I get one back on her feet, another one just topples over.

“No, no, come here, you’ll want to grab your bumper, c’mon love—”

“I will kill you,” Baz hisses as he races behind me. I swat out behind me and nearly hit a kid.

“Oh, shit, I mean, er—”

“Mr. Simon?” The tallest of the pink ladies is tugging on the bottom of my shirt. I crouch down so I’m closer to her.

“Yeah?”

“Will you push us?”

“Uh.” I glance around. Mitali didn’t give us many instructions other than “don’t break the kids” but I feel like pushing children around on ice falls under that.

“Trixie always pushes us,” another one says, wobbling dangerously. A few others nod, and then some more, and then suddenly I’m surrounded by kids, all making noises and talking too loud, begging me to throw them around the ice.

“Okay, okay.” I hold up my hands. “I’ve got an idea.” Putting my hands in my mouth, I whistle loud across the ice, toward where Baz is grabbing the back of a kid’s shirt and trying to make them stay still. “Oi, Baz! Will you bring me my duffle?”

He gives me a look that makes me sort of want to die, but he lets go of the kid and leans over the boards. He’s tall enough that his skates don’t come off the ice, but his bum does stick up in the air a lot. He looks sort of ridiculous, actually, and it’s kind of brilliant.

He zooms over to me, my duffle in hand, and then throws it at my feet.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say, bending down to unzip it and pull two sticks out. “We’re gonna split into two groups. Mr. Baz and I are going to hold onto these sticks, and you guys are going to take turns holding on really tight to the ends, yeah?”

“Snow—” Baz starts, but he’s drowned out by kids starting to catch onto my idea.

“Mr. Baz and I are gonna take you guys once around the ice, so you can get your feet under you. Okay?”

“We can race!” shouts one kid.

“Uh,” I glance at Baz. “No, I don’t think—”

“Come now, Snow,” Baz says, folding his arms over his chest. Suddenly he seems thrilled by the idea. “The children want to race.”

I glance out at the sea of kids who are about to be real disappointed when they’re on my team.

“Well….” But Baz has already grabbed a stick and held it out to the speed racer he’s been chasing around. I hold mine out to one of the little girls, already cringing. I hate seeing little kids upset.

“Ready, Snow?” Baz says, raising an eyebrow. I sigh.

“Ready.” I turn to the kids. “Give us a count?”

The kids start chanting, most of them wrong, not really together, and super out of order. Finally they all start shrieking “go!” and Baz takes off like a shot.

He’s skating backwards, feet crossing elegantly, looking smooth as hell. I hurry to catch up.

Almost as soon as I do, Baz’s speed drops incrementally.

“It looks like they’re gaining on us,” he shouts to his hanger-on, who's laughing hysterically and looks a bit close to letting go and spinning out. I turn to my toddler.

“We’re gonna win!” I announce. She shrieks in response. But she’s smiling, so I think it’s a good shriek. I keep pushing, keeping time with Baz—neither of us are going too fast, mind. This isn’t even as fast as I _can_ go, which means Baz is seriously holding back. He makes a show of trying to get ahead, but whenever I come even with him, he slows.

By the time we get once around the rink, he and I are dead even.

“Well,” Baz says, holding out his stick to another kid and glaring down his nose at me. “That wasn’t acceptable. Who thinks we can do better, hmm? We have to beat Mr. Simon.”

“Psh,” I mutter, “in your dreams.”

I’m surprised a bit by how friendly and non-competitive he’s being, to be honest. I figured he’d have taken the opportunity to show off how much better than me he is. But I’m glad of it. And it’s got the kids mostly behaving, at least.

I hold at my stick. “Who’s next?”

**BAZ**

“I’m fucking beat,” Snow gripes as we shove bumpers back into the supplies closet. “That last kid must have weighed ten stone, at least.”

“Consider it strength training.” I hand him the last bumper. “If you can't haul children around the ice, you’ll never be able to go a full game in pads.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Snow shoves the closet door closed quickly, before any of the things we’ve stacked in there can come sliding out. “I’m starving, too. Wanna grab lunch?” He locks the door. “Real lunch, mind. None of that crepe shit.” He makes a face.

I consider it. I am hungry. And I have free time, which I was going to use to eat.

And Wellbelove’s words are ringing in the back of my mind. She’s wrong, of course. Snow isn’t trying to flirt with me. This hasn’t been an elaborate ruse.

But if it _was_ …

“Lunch would be acceptable.”

Snow flashes me a wide grin. “Brill. I’m just gonna dunk my head real fast—the kids got me weirdly sweaty?” He heads off toward the facilities and I follow him without fully making a decision to. He doesn’t seem surprised that I’m following him, because he keeps chatting.

“Thanks for pulling your speed, by the way. I really appreciate that.” We enter the changing rooms, and I’m immediately assaulted by the stench of moulding tile and mildew and years of sweaty men. I never come in here, if I can avoid it. I almost feel bad for the hockey players who have to use it. “It would have been dead embarrassing if I’d kept losing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say as he pulls his hoodie over his head. There’s a flash of stomach as his white tee rides up, and I get greeted to a fleeting view of Snow’s abs before the t-shirt comes back down. I quickly turn away.

“Maybe the combined effort of you and a four year old was fast enough to nearly beat me,” I continue, refusing to get flustered. It makes sense that he has abs. He’s a professional athlete. I have abs. Everyone has abs.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, fiddling with the nearby shower. “Sure—ahh!”

The shower sputters on, like I knew it would, gushing a torrent of water out and soaking Snow, who didn’t jump out of the way in time.

“Fuck,” he spits, shaking his head and wiping water from his eyes. “Fuck, I’m all wet.”

His tee shirt is literally sticking to him, like something out of a vulgar teen fantasy or a 90s music video. I can see his entire chest through the waterlogged white fabric. I can see his pecs. Jesus Christ, he has pecs.

“Fuck, sorry,” he mutters, pulling the shirt over his head. I feel like I’m going to explode. He wads up the shirt and throws it into a corner with a solid _splat_ that I think my heart mimics. 

So, Snow is fit. That’s fine. This is fine.

He turns away from the shower and to one of the lockers, bending over to pull out his bag, full hockey bum on display in the air. Jesus Fucking Christ. Maybe Wellbelove was right, and he’s doing this deliberately. But he can’t be. The man is a disaster. There’s no way he could pull something like this off so effortlessly. The idea of Snow deliberately throwing himself into a music video set up to seduce me is just—it’s ridiculous. It’s absurd.

He has moles and freckles _everywhere_.

He grabs another shirt from his duffle and pulls it on over his still damp curls, and settles it around his waist.

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly. “I always forget these showers are bloody nightmares. So. Lunch?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice rather faint. “Lunch.”

***

“So tell me how you got started with all this.” Snow waves his hand wide, magnanimously, as he shoves a forkful of chicken into his mouth. It’s rather horrifying to watch, actually. He got a chicken salad with triple chicken. There’s allegedly greens somewhere under his mountain of protein.

“Skating?” I frown at my own food. I’ve barely touched it. “Family tradition, I suppose. My mum was a skater.”

“I meant music, but that’s awesome.” He shoves another forkful of poultry into his mouth. “Did she medal at the Olympics too?”

“Finally Googled me, hm?” I raise an eyebrow and Snow shrugs.

“Might have.”

“Yes, she medalled. My aunt never did, but she’s ranked. My grandmother skated as well. Her father went to the Olympics for swimming. All the way back, the Pitches have a long history of athletic excellence.”

“Well, shit.” Snow shakes his head. “That would suck if one of you just really hated athletics.”

“Admittedly, most of my step-siblings do. Only my little sister skates.”

“You have a little sister?”

“Mhm.” I poke at my food. “Mordelia. I coach her and Bunce’s sister. I expect Mordelia will be qualifying soon—she’s going to go far.”

Snow stops chewing. “Wait. Brown hair? Angry?” He holds out a hand. “This high and mean?”

I tilt my head. “Yes, that’s Mordelia.”

Snow sits back and shakes his head.

“I dunno how to tell you this, Baz,” he says slowly. Painfully earnestly. “It might break your heart.”

“Tell me what?” Anxiety thrums at the corner of my vision. “What do you know about Mordelia?”

Snow looks around, like he’s checking for eavesdroppers, and then leans in.

“She’s been asking me about women’s hockey teams.”

I drop my fork. “No she hasn’t.”

Snow nods sadly. “Yeah. She cornered me for nearly thirty minutes to ask about checking.”

I close my eyes. This sounds extremely realistic. 

Hockey. Mordelia playing hockey. It’s absurd. It’s a distraction. It’s a disgrace to her legacy, and—

“I’ve seen her skate, she’d be killer,” Snow says, chewing again. “I invited her to come by next week before I close and I could show her some pointers.”

“It doesn’t sit well with me that you’re teaching anyone anything,” I say, shaking my head. “He who cannot skate.”

“Get fucked,” he says cheerfully, popping another bite of chicken into his mouth. “You should come with her. You can see how she does.” He chews, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. “I can show you some pointers too, if you like. In return for the help you’re giving me with my speed.”

Something thrums sharp and tight in my stomach. Is this flirting? Is he flirting with me?

Taking a slow breath, I lean in.

“Like you could keep up with me,” I drawl. Was that sexy? That had to sound appealing, right?

Snow grins wider.

“I’m getting faster!” he insists. “And let’s put you in pads, see how fast you are then.” He snorts. “You’re so twiggy you may just fall over.”

I lean back. Not flirting, then.

“I’d be caught dead in hockey gear,” I say, sniffing and flicking my hair out of my eyes. “Does terrible things for the figure.”

Snow shrugs. “Not quite as form fitting as your skin tight little mesh numbers, I’ll give you that.” He drops his fork onto his plate and then stands to grab his dishes. “But hockey bums have a reputation for a reason.”

He gives me another cheeky grin and then heads to dump his rubbish before I can reply. I watch him go, and my eyes—completely unwillingly—fall to his bum.

Fuck.


	9. Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simon learns Youtube and Baz accepts his fate.

**SIMON**

Mordelia crouches low as she speeds toward me, handling the puck quickly—her stick is a blur.

“Right, just like that!” I call. “Now look for an opening!”

She pulls her stick back—too high, too slow—and I watch the direction of her eyes. I’m already falling to my right when she slams the puck in. It bounces off my chest.

“Fuck!” she shouts, shaking the stick. She pulls her borrowed helmet off and sends it hurtling across the ice.

“Oi, oi, none of that!” I pull my own helmet off and tuck it under my arm as I head over to her. “That was really good, honestly. You just need to be more careful with your shots—you brought your arm up too high, and you over thought it. I could watch it all. You’ve got to practice so it becomes instinctual, yeah? You should be shooting before you even know what you’re doing.”

Mordelia scowls at me and glances toward the side of the rink, where Pen and her little sister are waiting for us to be done. I tried to get them out for a scrimmage too, but they refused. Penny doesn’t skate, and I guess Priya has no interest in hockey. I sweep the stands again, just once, even though there’s no point. Baz didn’t come to watch Mordelia.

Not that I expected him to. I just thought he may be curious.

“Let’s call it for today, yeah?” I suggest, watching how Mordelia’s grip is getting tighter and tighter on her stick. “Do the practices I gave you, but really—don’t get discouraged. You’re doing great. You’re extremely good for a beginner.”

Mordelia mutters something under her breath that sounds dangerous, and then skates away from me. I shake my head as she goes.

I dunno what all she’s doing, really. She clearly wants to be good at hockey, but she’s been refusing all my offers to hook her up with some teams I know that she could join. It’s like she wants to be a master, but doesn’t want to work with the team to become one.

Maybe that’s the figure skating. Maybe it makes her independent. I tried to tell her that hockey is a team sport. You rise and fall on the skill of the people around you—there’s no room to be aloof. But I dunno if she gets it.

I think she’s like her brother that way.

“Simon!” Penny calls across the ice, standing up and packing up her books. “You need a ride home?”

“Nah!” I shout back, collecting the sticks and net and heading toward the boards. “I close tonight. I’ll see you later?”

“Alright.” Penny hauls her bag onto her back. “Just don’t miss the bus again, please!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “Lock the door on your way out.”

As soon as I hear Penny and the girls making their way back down the hallway to the lobby, I move to the side, pull out my phone and plug it into the big system. I should start cleaning the loos and all soon, but right now I just want to skate.

Baz gave me specific instructions of what album to listen to next, but I ignore him, scrolling through my Spotify until I find one of his big Beatles playlists. I put it on, push off the boards and start to circle.

I dunno why I feel disappointed that he didn’t come tonight. It’s not like it was a real invitation—just a passing thing. He’s never here late, and I dunno what he does in the evenings, but there’s no reason he’d come _back_. He was here until 3 p.m. this afternoon teaching class, and I know he was up extra early because he was at the gym way before me this morning. The last thing he probably wants to do is watch his little sister play a sport he hates.

I don’t think he’s mad about the idea of her possibly switching to hockey.

But still. I thought he might be...I dunno. Curious.

 _Across The Universe_ is playing—I know this one—and I pump faster and faster around the rink. And then, before I can second guess, I cross my legs the way I’ve seen Baz do and I pull myself into a wide, sloppy spin.

“That was horrible,” a voice calls across the ice. “0/10.”

I trip over my skates as I turn around to see Baz leaning over the boards, watching me. 

My heart thumps.

“You missed Mordelia.”

“I did that on purpose. I have no interest in watching her throw her life away.” He steps away, and a moment later he appears on ice, already wearing his skates. My stomach flips a bit. He’s here to skate with me.

“I came to ask a favour,” he says. My stomach churns a bit. Maybe he’s not.

He’s in leggings again. Leggings and a loose, soft-looking sweatshirt, his hair up in a loose ponytail. He looks a bit like he just rolled out of bed, in a really posh way. In a really comfortable way.

“What kind of favour?”

Baz holds up the camera in his hand. “I need footage.” His eyes dart to the side. “I’ve been working on choreographing something for a friend, and I need to send her the video. I also thought I could maybe get some video for my Youtube. I’m a bit behind schedule.”

“Oh.” He just wants ice time. “Yeah, no problem.” I glance at my watch. I can probably spare him some time. It shouldn’t make me too late. “I, uh, I’ll do closing and stuff. You can have the ice. Just lemme know when you’re done so I can zamboni.”

“Perfect. Thank you.” He pauses. He looks dead awkward. “Can I have music control?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” I head toward the side and lean over so I can unplug my mobile. “Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be, uh. About.”

I shove my mobile in my pocket and hobble off the ice. Why do I feel like I just got caught doing something weird? I wasn’t at all. He’s the one being weird. Fuck him.

“Thank you,” Baz says, his voice stiff. I give him a weird nod, then head off to do my closing routine.

***

I dunno how much time Baz needs, but for once it seems like closing takes me about two seconds. It was a light day at the rink—not many people in—so the wear and tear was pretty minimal. I finish up my routine within a blink, and then I just...wait.

I pace around the lobby, inspect the snack machines, play tic-tac-toe with myself on the sign-in sheet while I hear the same song echoing through the doors on repeat. I have that itchy anxious feeling I get when I’m waiting for things. The one that makes me feel like I have to pee, over and over.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself. I’m not going to just wait around. I’m doing _him_ the favour. The least I can do is wait inside the rink and catch the show.

I open the doors quietly, the sound of the music hitting me loud and fast. I don’t know it, but I like it. It’s not Beatles—that’s for sure. I take a seat up toward the front, cringing a bit as the seat squeaks. But Baz doesn’t notice at all. He’s completely absorbed, circling the rink. His feet are moving, flowing, his arms spinning around him. He does a jump here, an arm motion there, and it takes me a second to figure out what he’s doing before it hits me.

He’s dancing with someone.

His arms go out like he’s holding a missing partner, his hand regularly reaching for someone who isn’t there. He spins back and forth with his ghost, pulls her, pushes her away and then hurries back to her. His hands are apart as he lifts her up, spins her again.

Waltzing on the ice by himself.

It’s elegant. It’s impressive. It’s always impressive to watch Baz, but it’s—

It’s really beautiful. He’s really beautiful when he skates. Dances.

I wonder what it would be like to dance with him.

The thought pops up suddenly, out of nowhere, and I push it away. I could never learn these steps.

The song ends and Baz ends as well, centre-ice, holding someone who can master the steps, who can match his fluid movements, who knows the song. He’s panting a bit, his hair in his eyes.

He looks up and makes direct eye contact with me.

“Snow,” he calls. “Come here.”

“What?” I startle. I didn’t think he had realised I was there, but he doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

“I need to block around someone—come here. Just for a moment. Please.”

“Er. I’m not wearing skates.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I haul myself up and onto the ice, my shoes slipping a bit as I carefully cross to him. Behind his head I see his camera, blinking red. Still recording.

“Okay, stand there,” he says, putting a hand on my elbow and steering me to a space. He glides around me, taller than usual on account of the skates. “Hold out your arm.”

“Er.” I hold out my arm, and Baz takes my hand, his face screwed into a mask of concentration as he works out some puzzle in his head.

“Stay still,” he says, still holding my hand as he crouches into a position and sticks out one leg. It’s like he’s breaking down moves one motion at a time. It’s dead weird to watch.

“Drag me,” he says.

“Uh.”

“Walk backward,” he commands, his face still scrunched.

I take a step backward and pull Baz along with me, like he’s one of the little kids attached to my stick. In a blink, he twists his wrist around in mine, spins himself, and then comes up neatly into a standing position.

“Thank you,” he says, nodding. Apparently that was all he needed.

“Er, no problem.” I scratch at my head. “You done?”

He nods again. “Yes. I got what I needed for the choreography. Not much for my own video, but I’ll figure that out.” He pauses. “Thank you again for letting me use the ice.”

“No problem,” I repeat. I look away, toward the video, then back to him. “You can keep going if you want. I can zamboni tomorrow morning.”

Baz finally looks at me— _actually_ looks at me, and seems to snap out of whatever mental problem-solving thing he’s in.

“Can I help?”

“Help what?”

“Zamboni.”

“Uh.” It’s kind of a one person job. It’s not really a thing you _help_ with. But….

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

**BAZ**

Simon Snow cannot drive.

“You just kind of turn it in a big circle!” he shouts over the whine of the machine, as he very nearly crashes into the boards. He’s in the driver seat, and I’m perched on some kind of odd booster seat. It’s extremely undignified, but Snow seems to be having the time of his life. He’s propped up his phone, and it’s blaring music as we go.

It’s horrifically endearing, even if we are sitting on the world’s most stupid-looking machine.

Though, honestly, I suppose I’ve never thought about zambonis. I’ve never really considered riding one.

“Can I film this?” I shout. Snow glances at me.

“For your channel? With me in it?”

I don’t meet his eyes. 

“I’ve been considering doing a video about the Wyverns. To support the rink.” Not a lie.

“Really?” Snow’s eyes get wide. “Well don’t bother with the zamboni. Come to a game! We’ve got one this week.”

“I think I’d rather watch a zamboni,” I drawl. The idea of sitting through an entire hockey game sounds excruciatingly boring. Snow makes some kind of scoffing noise and rolls his eyes.

“Fine, suit yourself. Go ahead and film.” _Yesterday_ is playing through the phone now, and it takes me a second to realise that Snow’s odd zig-zagging movements are in time to the beat of the song. He’s taking us around and around like he’s….dancing with the zamboni.

“You’re going out of the order I assigned,” I note, leaning back in my booster seat and trying to make myself as comfortable as possible.

“Yeah, well that’s for serious listening,” Snow says, grinning. “This is just for fun.” He spins the wheel again. “Oi, speaking of.” He turns and glares at me. “Did you really make an _entire_ video about how I don’t know who the Beatles are?” He yanks the wheel again. “ _And_ you put footage of me in the end of another video. You should really warn a bloke.”

I look away so that he can’t see the way I simultaneously may be blushing and looking like I’m about to puke. Simon Snow has been watching my Youtube channel.

“I did not put footage of you,” I say, refusing to meet his gaze. “It was a quick clip of me shooting on you, and as you will notice, you were not at all visible. It was only a shot of me.”

“You could hear me,” he argues. “You could hear me shouting at you. And your followers noticed.”

Oh my God, he read the comments. I close my eyes. I can only imagine what he saw.

_\- Wait who are you playing with?_

_\- Is this the guy that was in the background of your jumps tutorial?_

_\- If you look closely, that guy is in the background of *so many* videos and he’s always wearing hockey skates_

_\- I have a theory this is Beatles boy_

_\- SHOW US BEATLES BOY_

_\- omg WE WANT BEATLES BOY_

“My Youtube followers are a bunch of teen girls who live to create conspiracy theories,” I say, not meeting his gaze. “And they delight when I have any content that gives them new mysteries to hint after.”

“Just saying,” Snow says with a shrug, “if you’re going to use me for content, you should at least have let me know. Or introduce me.”

“You want to be introduced on my channel?” I yelp. This has gone from bad to worse. I regret coming here tonight.

“You’ve got to give the people what they want, Baz,” he says, flashing me a grin. That sharp, thrumming feeling starts up in my stomach again. I can never tell if Snow is flirting, or if this is just…. Snow.

All of a sudden the grin gets even wider. It takes on a sharp tinge, and Snow brings the zamboni to a stop.

“I’ve got an idea.”

I regret being born.

***

I hate this. I hate this so much. I have no idea how I’ve agreed to this.

From the booster seat of the zamboni, Snow is grinning wildly, his face pulled up into an impossible smile as he addresses my camera.

“Hey everyone! This is Simon Snow. You all know me as hockey boy or Beatles boy. I’m one of Baz’s friends, and apparently you can see me in the background of a lot of videos—that’s because Baz and I share ice time. I’m a goalie for the Winchester Wyverns, and I’m taking over Baz’s channel today to bring you all my own, uh, tutorial video.”

I stare at him. How much of my Youtube channel did he watch? Because for a man with absolutely no cultural awareness, he’s alarmingly good at recording a video opener. He turns the video camera on me.

“Today, we’re gonna teach Baz how to drive a zamboni.”

“This is ridiculous,” I say, sighing. “It’s not like it’s hard.”

“Now, put it in gear,” Snow says, propping up the camera and leaning over to put his hand on mine over the knob I need to pull. My face gets warm. There’s no way I can put this video up. My followers will eat me alive.

“Yeah, like that,” Snow says, oblivious. “Now pull down—”

The zamboni starts to live with a lurch, and I take off.

“No, pull in—” he starts to say.

“Snow, you almost drove us into the boards at least six times, I’m not taking driving advice from you.”

There’s a screeching sound as the corner of the zamboni clips the boards. I pull a bit tighter on the wheel.

“Just like driving a car,” I say, sniffing, sticking my nose up in the air. I guide us back toward Snow’s original path, cutting a clean stip of ice down the middle of the rink.

“You know, given that I’ve driven with you and know how you drive, I hate that you’re right,” Snow says, grimacing.

“What? I’m an excellent driver.”

“If you like nearly being killed six times on the way to lunch, sure.”

“Interesting that _you_ never drive,” I point out, cringing as swe nearly scrape the boards again.

“I don’t have a car. I take the bus.”

“Amazed that you don’t drive your beloved zamboni everywhere.”

Snow rolls his eyes.

“So, since this is your grand introduction video to my channel, tell my followers about yourself.” I gesture toward the camera. This is a nightmare. I know I’ll post it, and my comments are going to be a travesty. Fiona is going to play this at my funeral.

“Oh. Uh.” Snow squints at the camera. “I dunno. I play hockey. As you know, I don’t know anything about the Beatles, so Baz is teaching me.” He chews on a lip. “I like skating, and uh, working out. And scones. Big fan of baked goods. I’d sell my soul for a properly done pudding.”

Food, skating and working out.

Snow is just about as single-minded as I am.

“And, for my followers, tell them what you know about figure skating,” I instruct, turning the wheel sharply.

Snow grins at me, happy as can be.

“Absolutely nothing.”

***

It takes us three hours to zamboni.

We have to keep going back over spots, because Snow kept insisting I demonstrate some of the figure skating terms I was attempting to teach him for the video. And then he wanted me to show him how to spin, which required both of us to go get our skates on, and then required us to go back over the patch.

Also to clean up a bit of blood from where Snow fell and hit his nose. 

(Contrary to what he claims, I did not trip him. I have video evidence.)

“Fuck,” he swears, glancing at his watch as we head out into the carpark. “It’s so late.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that happens when you spend three hours flailing on the ice.”

“No, I mean—” Snow pouts and throws his duffel over his shoulder, “—the bus isn’t running anymore. I’m going to have to have Penny pick me up again, and she’s going to kill me.”

With a sigh, I hit the button to unlock my car.

“Just get in,” I say, trying to sound as long-suffering as possible.

I’m not suffering, through. Not really. Because, although I’d never admit it, I’ve had more fun fucking around with Snow tonight than I have in years.

The ride is relatively silent. Neither of us puts on music, and Snow only speaks to give me directions toward his flat. We get closer and closer to my own, and I realise, as I pull up to the kerb where instructed, that Snow lives less than five minutes away from me.

It makes my stomach thrum even sharper.

“Thanks, Baz,” he says, gathering his duffle back and untangling his girth out of my passenger side. He pauses, his eyes down. “Tonight was fun.”

The chords in my stomach thrum into a relentless progression of flustered anticipation. Fuck.

“I did too,” I say, and then curse myself for it.

“You should come to my game,” he says, his voice quiet. “I think you’d like it.”

I shift, uncomfortable. I dislike making absolutes or agreeing to anything.

“Maybe,” I say, tilting one shoulder up in the same kind of shrug he does. “I’ll check my schedule.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, then grins. “Thanks again.”

The car door closes with a sharp _click_ that seems to echo something in my ribs.

**SIMON**

I’m weirdly amped up and unable to sleep, so I’m three episodes deep into _The Twilight Zone_ when my phone buzzes.

_Baz_Pitch_Skates has uploaded a new video._

I click on it way too fast. I’m so fucking glad I’m alone in my room and not out with Pen--she always checks my phone when it buzzes, and I think she’d be torn between being proud that I figured out how to set up notifications and being massively judgemental about what I get notifications for.

I click onto the new video and wait for it to load.

**The Education of Beatles Boy: Meet Simon Snow**

Below it is the screencap that Baz chose for the main image—it’s a still from the day that he was shooting on me in goal, except now you can see me completely—my hands in the air, grinning, while Baz is in peak form, lining up a shot that’s about to whiz by my head.

Fucking leggings again. He’s got great form.

My hands feel weirdly clammy. Should I watch it now? Or should I wait?

Maybe I should wait. I can watch it on the bus on the way to work out tomorrow. I should really go to sleep.

I scroll down—I’m just going to see if Baz added a description—and see that there’s already a comment.

 _Aggie_on_Ice:_ _lolllllllllllllllllll called this_


End file.
